


Through The Wall

by orphan_account



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Damen, Divorce, Enemies to Lovers, Get Together, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Pregnancy Loss, Slow Burn, hidden identities, past Damen/Jokaste - Freeform, pianist Laurent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 17:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12215607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It was a system that never failed.  The tenants never lasted twenty-four hours, until the day the pianist moved in.  Damen relished his solitary life, and didn't intend for this thing with his neighbor, whatever it was, to become something new.  But it did, and as much as Damen was hesitant to let anyone else into his life again, something about the quiet, cranky pianist made it all feel worth it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic writing in this fandom, but I have been reading them for a while. I've been deeply encouraged by my wonderful beta, Elena who has been working hard on the chapters I have written. I'm in school so my writing time is pretty low but I do have a good portion of this done, so my updates should be about once a week.
> 
> This fic is based on the movie Un peu, beaucoup, aveuglément, about a man and a woman who get into a "blind" relationship through their badly insulated walling. I've taken a lot of creative liberty with the plot, but keeping the timeline of events kind of the same while aslo trying to include canon events from the CP series.

“Can you…will you just… _honestly I don’t know who hired you and I will personally assure each and every one of you is publicly flogged and…_ ”

“And given a pay raise.” The second, taller blonde with the wide grin set his hand on the shorter one’s shoulder and gave the harried, exhausted movers a look of pity. “My brother, his sense of humor…most people don’t understand it. Thank you again, so much, for your timely services and hard work. Laurent, a word, if you please?”

The second the pair of brothers were out of earshot, Laurent rounded on Auguste. “To undermine me in front of them…”

“Is going to do nothing. You’ll not see them again, Laurent. You realize this, don’t you? They’ve been hired for a single day to get all your shit up to your new flat and that’s it. Then you pay them, and they leave, and you don’t need them again.” Auguste dragged his hand through his hair and gave his brother a pleading look. “They haven’t hurt anything.”

“Four dings on the leg, Auguste,” Laurent said through clenched teeth. “The only thing in my life worth anything is that piano and there are already four dings on the leg!”

“You’re making six men carry a baby grand piano up six flights of narrow stairs, Laurent. You’re asking for a miracle that we cannot buy. That no one can buy. You wanted out of that house…”

“You know why I had to get out,” Laurent snapped, and felt only a slight wave of guilt as Auguste’s face fell.

“I know,” he all-but whispered. “Laurent, I know. If I’d known years ago…”

“I’m not…that wasn’t me trying to—to blame you,” Laurent said in a rush. “I just mean…”

“You’re out,” Auguste interrupted. “That’s what matters. We’ll get you set up, next week you can start advertising for pupils. You’ll only have to see him twice between now and the audition. You can do this.”

Laurent blew out a puff of air, tugged at the hem of his jumper, and nodded. “I can do this,” he repeated. When Auguste touched his shoulder again, Laurent’s eyes closed and he let himself feel the comfort of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop this and just come and live with me. I know it’s far, but Kashel and I…”

“I’m sure,” Laurent said. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but a soon-to-be screaming baby, a mouthy eleven year old doesn’t really give me the environment I need to compose. And I know I’m never going to get through the first round of auditions if I have to play something I’ve already done.”

Auguste squeezed his shoulder again. “Alright. Let’s let these people work, and I’m pretty sure I’ve spotted pizza around the corner.” When Laurent pulled a face, Auguste rolled his eyes. “Pizza and beer once in a while won’t kill you, little brother. And besides, I happen to know you literally cannot cook.”

*** 

The door closed, and Laurent felt the oppressive silence settle over him, suffocating and only slightly terrifying. It was the first time in his twenty-six years that he’d been alone. Twenty-six years he’d suffered under the watchful eyes of the Regent, under his thumb, under the weight of memories he’d give anything to scrub from his brain.

Laurent pressed his palms into his eyes, taking a breath. There were boxes everywhere, stacked haphazardly giving the room an air of chaos he couldn’t stand. The only thing in the room that stood alone, pristine, as it should be was his piano. The heirloom from his mother, the only thing that had ever connected him to the woman who had died when he was a young boy. He could barely remember her now—just a foggy image of her quirked smile, her soft blue eyes, the cadence of her laugh which he thought perhaps he made up.

She’d been ill from the time he was an infant, and his father had always mentioned how it was a miracle she’d lasted those five years. But she couldn’t last six. Laurent’s most clear memory of her was in the coffin, looking all _wrong_ and waxy and unlike herself. He recalled sitting in the cathedral staring at her profile, wondering if maybe it was all some silly joke. She’d sit up and take the paint off her face, then take him up into her arms and spin him and spin him until he cried from laughter.

That didn’t happen. He watched, numb and hollow as they closed her casket, as the men bore the weight of it on their shoulders, and she was taken away to be sealed into their family crypt.

Nine years later had taken their father, and their uncle had stepped in. Their uncle, who had always watched Laurent with a fond smile, and a sweet in his pocket. Their uncle, who had always been kind to Laurent, but had always, in a visceral way, frightened him.

He hadn’t understood that fear until Auguste had been sent away for school. And with no one to protect Laurent, his uncle descended, like a vicious shadow to consume what little childhood remained to Laurent de Vere.

He was spared further pain when he was sent away to school, and when they learnt of his talent with the piano, his uncle—a man who had built his life and reputation on training some of the best of the best—had once again regained a foothold in Laurent’s life.

In this moment Laurent could not be certain whether or not he had chosen this life because he loved the music, or because he was never given another choice.

All the same, he was free. His inheritance had become his at twenty-five, and it was enough to live on for a while—enough to fund what he was doing if he was very careful. If he could get the conservatory position, a steady income, the hope of a future outside of his uncle’s influence—then maybe he would truly be on his own.

*** 

The door banged open, and Damen gave a start so violent, his fingers crushed into the clay he was working with. His brow dipped, and he sighed, leaning back to assess the damage. “You need to wear a fucking bell or something, Nik.”

There was a shuffling noise, and then crunching, and Nikandros spoke with his mouth full. “You know I was on my way, Damen. It’s not my fault you get all…into your shit.”

“My work,” Damen offered.

“If that’s what you’re calling it today.” Nikandros sighed, swallowed, then said, “Anyway I got those things you asked for. Uh. Blood oranges?”

“I didn’t ask for…” Damen slapped the bit of clay onto his sculpture and twisted in his seat to face the kitchen where Nik was unloading the bags of food. “Cara cara oranges, _malakas_. There’s a difference.”

“Can _you_ tell?” Nik challenged.

“I’m blind, I’m not…” He stopped. “Is there a word for people who can’t taste things?”

“Probably. You’d know it if you stopped being such a goddamn technophobe and googled shit.” The cupboards slammed, and Damen could hear Nik putting away the rest of the food. “Anyway oranges are fucking oranges. You’ll eat them, and not get scurvy, and we can all live happily ever after. Even the hermits amongst us.”

“I hate you,” Damen said, twisting back around in his seat. He picked up his carving tool, then paused. “I have a new neighbor.”

Nik froze. “How long?”

“About three hours,” Damen said, shrugging one shoulder.

“So you haven’t beat your record then.”

“That one was a fluke. She was already half out the door, and her boyfriend stayed an entire day,” Damen replied, and dug the tool into the side of the clay blob. “He’ll be gone by tonight, I guarantee it.”

“You know, if you just got yourself some studio space…”

“Not like it would make a difference,” Damen all-but snapped. “So what, I work there? I still come home to hearing literally everything that goes on over there. Like I want to hear someone taking a piss at all hours.”

“Noise-cancelling headphones,” Nik said, and he dropped a hand on Damen’s shoulder, making him flinch.

“You know why that’s not something I can do,” Damen said dryly. “I like my system anyway. It hasn’t failed me yet.”

Nik snorted. “Oh yes, the ghost. It’s not going to work forever. One of these days someone’s going to put that shit on Twitter or YouTube and they’ll come investigate and find this gigantic Akielon hermit sculpture stood at his wall making woo’ing noises through the cracks in the plaster.”

“Will you fuck off, please? I’m busy,” was all Damen said. He turned his cheek up, and Nik dropped a kiss on it. “Dinner?”

“I’ll be by with schwarma. Love you.”

“Love you too, asshole,” Damen said, and didn’t bother waiting for Nik to go before getting back to work.

*** 

Laurent knew it was somewhat irresponsible to spend even a single day without sitting at the piano, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch the keys. Not yet. He needed this, he needed to bask in the feeling of being alone, of being on his own, of triumph just on the horizon.

He ate what was left of the food Auguste had brought over, then turned in early. His bed faced the large window, which overlooked the street, and he watched as the gentle glow of streetlamps got brighter and brighter with the darkening sky. The stars were probably out, but the city center’s lights muted them. He’d miss it—he’d miss the countryside of Acquitart and the wide openness he couldn’t find in the city. But he wouldn’t miss the feeling of fear, of angry memories scratching at him from every dark corner of the manor.

He was just drifting off when it happened. A strange noise, like a scratching sound. The dim glow of the lamp near the kitchen counter was the only thing illuminating the room, and suddenly the shadows became oppressive—almost angry. Laurent dragged a hand down his face from his half-sitting position, and narrowed his eyes, but saw nothing.

The noise ceased.

He flopped back against his pillow, letting out a long puff of air, then closed his eyes again.

He began to drift when a second noise roused him. A creaking. Sitting up all the way, his heart began to hammer in his chest when he saw the painting attached to the far wall was turning. A slight shift to the right, then to the left. Then, after a long, tense pause, it ripped all the way onto its side.

Maybe it was lack of sleep, maybe it was the feeling of being _so_ alone, but Laurent bolted. He managed his slippers, his keys, and his phone, and then he was out the door, feeling the cobblestones cold beneath his feet.

*** 

It was probably by some miracle that anyone was awake and in the Arles flat. His stomach twisted, sick and angry when his uncle’s face appeared in the crack of the door, and he heard the bone-tired sigh drift from his lungs.

“Can I please sleep on your sofa tonight? I’ll be gone by morning.”

Laurent’s stomach twisted, sick and heavy, as he felt his uncle’s hand drop to his shoulder and squeeze. “You can stay in your old room, if you like.”

Laurent shook his head. “The sofa will be fine.”

He was grateful for one thing, and one thing only—his uncle didn’t ask why he’d come. He was alone after only a minute, and he pulled the soft throw from the back of the sofa, curled up under it, and squeezed his eyes shut, praying for just a moment of respite.

*** 

Damen’s shoulders stiffened with irritation when he heard the side-door open, but he still managed a smug grin as Nikandros took the chair across from him. “Well?”

“He was gone by midnight,” Damen said. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, letting out a sigh at the satisfying crack in his spine. “I didn’t even have to pull out the recording. A couple of scratches on the wall, turn the painting, and done.”

“This is going to blow up in your face one of these days,” Nikandros complained. “And you can’t hole yourself up here like this forever, you know. At some point it’s going to bite you in the ass and…”

“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. I tried all of that before. I tried to run the damn company, I tried to have a relationship, a life, a home. Look where the fuck it got me.”

“Most people don’t turn into hermits after divorce,” Nikandros said dryly. Damen heard him move, then the distinct crunch of him eating one of Damen’s apples.

He sighed, annoyed. “Most people don’t go through what I did.”

Nikandros was quiet for a moment. “I’m not saying it wasn’t traumatic, Damen. I’m just saying…”

“I should what? Get back on the horse? Try again? Oust Kastor from the position he was voted into? Beg Jokaste to take me back and…”

“Fuck her, and fuck Kastor,” Nik said, his hand coming down hard on the table, making Damen jump. “I’m not saying you should do any of that. I’m saying that there’s a big, wide world outside your little cave and instead of tormenting your neighbors, maybe you could get a new place, go back into programming…”

“I’m not interested in that.” His voice was flat, and he didn’t need to be able to see to know that Nik was probably glowering at the massive hunk of half-carved clay on the wheel. He wished Nikandros could understand—wished he had some concept of how it felt to lose his father, lose his child, and within a year lose everything else that mattered to him. He wished Nikandros would understand that this—the sculpting, the gallery, that’s what made him happy. “I’m doing the damn show next month. I thought that would at least get you off my back for a while.”

Nik sighed again. “Let’s play a game of chess.”

Damen sighed right back at him, but didn’t argue when Nik pushed the chessboard up against his hands.

*** 

Damen was still feeling self-satisfied and smug about his accomplishments that afternoon when he heard the neighbor’s door open and shut. His fingers paused on his book, a grin flitting across his face as he anticipated the sound of movers, of people starting to shift all the things back out of the flat.

He held his breath, waiting for that one, sweet moment of triumph.

It didn’t come.

He heard the bubble of the kettle, he heard the toilet flushing, soft murmurs. And then, to his extreme horror, he heard it. The music. Piano, being played rapid-fire, furious, almost angry. He didn’t recognize the work, but he knew a professional when he heard it, and rage rushed up his spine.

How? How had it not worked? How mad was this person that they’d be willing to live in a place like that, with strange noises and moving paintings?

Damen shoved his book off his lap, slipped his feet into his slippers, and shuffled almost soundlessly toward the wall. His fingers sought out the crank, one hand making loud scratching noises, the other twisting and twisting.

After a moment, the piano music stopped. 

Damen held his breath, twisted the painting again, scratched his nails. He pushed his forehead against the wall, his ears strained, listening. He heard nothing, and just as he was about to give the painting another twist, it suddenly jerked forward, the metal bar crushing his fingers to the wall.

His mouth opened in a silent scream, and he managed to focus long enough to yank the metal crank backward. There was another shift, a grunt from the other side of the wall, and the painting was ripped forward again, pinning his hands so hard, he thought for a moment, his fingers would break.

Out of sheer panic that he wouldn’t be able to use his hand, he gave in. “Okay, okay! You’ve got me. Please let go.”

“Who the hell are you?” came the terse reply. The painting tugged harder, and this time Damen could not hide a small whimper of pain.

“I’m your neighbor. I was trying to scare you. Please, please let go. I need my hands.”

After what felt like an eternity of agony, the painting released, and Damen ripped his hand away, stumbling backward. He managed to catch himself on the edge of his desk before falling, and he pushed the tops of two knuckles into his mouth in an attempt to soothe them.

“Why the hell were you tormenting me?” came the voice again. It was light, the accent naturally Veretian, young but definitely an adult.

Damen took a breath, sighing it out. “I was hoping to scare you into moving. This place…it’s a nightmare. There was some building code that wasn’t followed, the damn walls don’t have any insulation, and I need quiet to work.”

There was a long pause, and then the voice sounded closer to the wall. “So you chose to torment the tenants until they moved out instead of just speaking to them. How…mature.”

Damen felt his face heat up, but he was not backing down. “Are you willing to give up the apartment without good reason?”

There was no answer.

“Tell me you wouldn’t have considered great lengths after trying to reason with another person didn’t work out.”

Again, no answer.

After ten full minutes of silence, Damen realized the other person had gone. He sighed, replacing the crank as it had been, and turned back to his work.

*** 

It lasted exactly one hour. One hour, before loud, banging sounds from the piano jolted him from his concentration. His fingers crushed into the soft clay he was working with, and he felt the dome of it cave in on itself. Irritation raced up his spine, and he rose, not bothering to clean his hands as he fumbled for his iPod dock, and put on the first song, cranking up the volume as far as he could stand it. Something from Nik’s loaded playlist began to pour from the speakers.

He could hear faint, Veretian swearing on the other side, and piano music again and again and again.

Damen took a breath, feeling the beginnings of a headache blooming. He had a feeling it was going to be a very long battle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, and thanks to Elena who is getting this done as quick as she can for posting. The next chapter has a lot more Damen and Laurent interacting, and we get in to the real plot.

_Clack clack clack clack clack PING!_

_Zzzzzzzzt!_

_Clack clack clack clack clack PING!_

_Zzzzzzzzzt!_

Laurent supposed, in a way, he deserved this. He’d been banging on the piano, and blaring music, and being obnoxiously loud with cooking pans and utensils he didn’t actually know how to use. And in return, his neighbor had been making strange clacking noises, and terrible rock music on speaker, and loud stomping, and other things Laurent couldn’t possibly identify.

This current bout of noise sounded vaguely like a typewriter, though Laurent couldn’t be sure. He didn’t think people used those anymore, so he thought maybe it was some sort of app or noise-machine. Either way, he was being driven mad. Slowly and surely, driven mad.

He had very little time to compose, and every time he sat to try and write up anything, the devil next door started in again.

He’d gotten no sleep, and was woken early, and hadn’t been able to practice in days.

_Clack clack clack clack clack clack PING!_

“I give up,” Laurent muttered. He was on the floor, his temple pressed to their shared wall. When the clacking continued, he raised his voice. “I give up! I give up, machin!”

The place went suspiciously silent, almost ringing in his ears with the absence of noise suddenly.

He could hear footsteps, and then a voice very close to him. “You’re moving out?”

Laurent sighed. “I can’t actually do that, you know.”

After a moment, the clacking picked up again, and in a fit of frustration, Laurent let out a stream of Akielon curses he’d learnt a few years back after Jord had gone to Ios for training.

The noise stopped again, and then there was laughter. “I speak your language better than you speak mine, khriso mou.”

Laurent scowled. “Listen, machin, I can’t move out. I don’t have anywhere else to live, and as much as I would love to just call it a day and get the hell out of here, I have no way to do that. We have to…we need a system. We need to compromise.”

There was a long pause, and just when Laurent thought the clacking would start up again, he heard a sigh. “Alright.”

Laurent’s heart pounded. “You’re really willing to reason with me?”

“I work early mornings, and sometimes at night,” the neighbor said.

“I need to quiet to compose, and I have to be able to play,” Laurent said in response. “I teach during the afternoons, but the evenings…I need them.”

Somehow, in the midst of the anger and chaos, they came up with a schedule. It wasn’t perfect. In fact, Laurent was furious at the idea that he’d have to sacrifice any of his time in his own living space just to make this work. But, he knew, if he struggled through it and got to the audition and did well, he could say goodbye to this place for good. If he could get the teaching post at Delfeur, then he could become a live-in instructor and never have to deal with the obnoxious Akielon again.

*** 

Damen woke, startled, to the sound of someone at his wall. It took him a moment to realize the neighbor was telling him something.

“…for several hours, so you might as well take advantage of it. I’m going to need to get some work done when I get home so…”

“I’m not switching the schedule around just because you found something to do during the day,” Damen grumbled, pushing his face into his pillow.

“Of course you’re not. Why would I expect you, the man who attempted to frighten me out by pretending to be a ghost, to be in any way reasonable. Either way, I should be home right around my scheduled playing time, so just be aware I have no plans to make chit-chat.”

“I thought you said you were leaving,” Damen said.

There was a sigh, then footsteps, then the door slammed shut.

Damen covered his face with his hands, then fumbled for his phone and opened up his texting app, going straight to Nik’s contact. “Neighbor out for the day [period] if you want to come by it would be a good time to do it [period].” He hit send, then pulled his second pillow over his face and attempted to sleep a little more.

*** 

Laurent tried to quell the shaking in his hands as he stepped into the practice room. He was frustrated, and tired, and hadn’t a lot of luck on his search for more clients. He’d just finished off hanging signs near all the schools, and was now standing in front of Auguste’s apartment debating whether or not he wanted to go in.

He was just about to turn away when he heard his nephew shriek his name, and he knew his time was up. The buzzer sounded, and Laurent let himself in the building. He tried to swallow past the bitter taste in his mouth at how posh and clean everything was. The elevators worked, the stairs didn’t creak, nothing smelled funny as he passed by doors.

Laurent stepped into an apartment which was warm, inviting, soft. He managed a smile at Kashel, who was very pregnant, laying out on the couch, and then let out a huff of air as Nicaise flung himself at Laurent, grabbing his middle.

“When can I come stay over?” he demanded.

Laurent looked down at him, quirking an eyebrow. “How are your grades.”

Nicaise’s eyes narrowed. “…fine?”

“And by fine you mean…”

“He means he needs to do a pile of make-up work his teacher gave him so he can bring them up,” Kashel offered.

Nicaise huffed, stomping his foot. “I can do them at your place, you know.”

Laurent ruffled his hair in the way he knew would make his nephew back away from him. He wanted to spend time with Nicaise. He’d promised the boy once he was out of his uncle’s home, there would be space for him—just him. That they’d make up for all the time lost because Auguste rightfully wouldn’t let any of his children anywhere near the Regent.

But now it was complicated. Now he had the strange man living on the other side of the wall who could hear every tiny noise and every tiny movement and he wasn’t sure he trusted things would go well.

“I need a few more weeks to settle in. Then you can come over, okay? I promise.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes, but stomped off, and Laurent took that time to cross the room and drop a kiss onto Kashel’s head. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a damn cow,” she groaned, rubbing her hand over her stomach. “I didn’t realize your family made such giant goddamn babies.”

“I think that would be your genes, my love,” Auguste said, coming into the room. He bent down to kiss Kashel, then kissed Laurent on his cheek. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” he said, shrugging. “I thought I’d drop in for a bit, see how things were.”

Auguste gave him a knowing look, then grabbed his wrist and tugged. “Come on, I need a coffee and a short walk. I’ve been stuck in my office all day.”

Laurent meant to protest, but he’d never been able to say no to his brother, and now was no exception. He waited as Auguste kissed Kashel goodbye, then the pair of them hit the street and headed toward the small string of shops which were just up the road.

“I miss it here,” Laurent said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He avoided Auguste’s gaze, knowing what his brother was going to say. “I don’t hate living in Arles, but it was…” He stopped, then shrugged. “It used to feel safe here.”

“It’s a short train ride away,” Auguste reminded him, as though Laurent hadn’t just spent the last hour and a half cooped up near an old man who smelled like a bottle of wine someone had thrown cigarette butts into. “It’ll get easier, you know.”

Laurent said nothing. Auguste had always tried to solve his problems, even when he’d gone away for school, and he’d gone a little overboard when he returned and found out all of the things that happened while he was away. He was too like Laurent—too ready to blame himself for any and everything he couldn’t control.

He’d attempted to bring his uncle down, but there hadn’t been evidence, and in the end it was give up, or let his name be tarnished and lose what little cred he had for his business. Auguste had been willing to give it up, too, but Laurent had promised to get out if Auguste let the matter drop. He’d begged Auguste to think of his wife, of his son they’d just adopted, of the apartment they’d just bought.

With Laurent’s promise, Auguste had let it go, but he’d kept a close watch since then, and he hadn’t stopped worrying.

“What do you want?” Auguste asked as they stepped up to the barista.

“Café au lait,” Laurent said. “And if they have orange scones…” He scanned the pastry counter and found maple ones. “That will do.”

Auguste ordered, and they found a table near the window which was just as well, since the moment they sat, it started to drizzle. Laurent always loved the summer rains of Acquitart—the sharpness of them, the heady sort of mossy scent when they were over. He curled his fingers around his cup and breathed in the scent of the milky coffee.

“I have a couple of friends in the city,” Auguste said after taking a bite of his croissant. “They have kids. They can’t pay as much as the conservatory, but it should help, you know? Lessons a few times a week?”

“What’s the catch?” Laurent asked.

Auguste rolled his eyes, but took a breath telling Laurent he was right in asking. “One of them’s eighteen. He was…he had some trouble, he was away for a while. His mother thinks it might help.”

Laurent balked, wanting to list his resume, to remind Auguste he was a piano prodigy and was composing his own scores by the age of eight. He didn’t need to be teaching eighteen year old former addicts or whatever his problem was, how to play twinkle twinkle little star. But he also couldn’t afford to be picky.

“Have the mother call me,” he said.

Auguste beamed. “It’s not for long. How’s the composing coming?”

Laurent winced. “It would be better if my fucking neighbor…” He bit the inside of his cheek by accident, and winced. “Shit.”

“Still that bad?”

“He’s insufferable,” Laurent groaned. “This schedule we have is insufferable, and the very fact that he tried to scare me away…”

“He sounds like just your type,” Auguste said with a tiny grin.

Laurent’s eyes narrowed at his brother. “Do me a favor and shut up.”

Auguste merely laughed.

*** 

“Check mate,” Damen said triumphantly and reached over to tip Nik's king, then pushed away from the table and got up for more wine.

He could feel Nik staring at him, and he rolled his head toward his friend as he took a swig directly from the bottle.

“Are you going to pass your judgement aloud, or do I have to guess what you’re thinking?” he demanded.

Nik sighed. “You’re starting early today.”

“This isn’t about…” Damen waved his hand, then groped for his chair before sitting. “The world’s most delightful neighbor is going to be back in about an hour, and I have to be drunk for this. I cannot take another morose rendition of Debussy's Suite Bergamasque or I’m going to fling myself into the river.”

Nikandros snorted a laugh into his glass. “I can’t believe you remember all of that.”

“Six years of being forced to sit through concert after concert,” Damen complained. “Of course I remember it.”

“Is he really that terrible?”

Damen sighed, passing a hand down his face. “No. He’s…I don’t think he’s actually terrible. I don’t know what his problem is, to be honest. His entire demeanor tells me he’s probably got a stick shoved up his ass. And not in a good way.”

“You would know,” Nik replied. “Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten.”

“Shut up,” Damen said, entirely without venom. It’s not like Nikandros was lying, anyway. “I don’t know what his problem is. He sounds miserable, his music is miserable. If he just left…”

“You could leave, you know,” Nik pointed out, and Damen crossed his arms, making a big show of his pout.

“I like it here. It’s good here.”

“You’re miserable here, and this is a damn cave. Like a gross hermit cave, Damianos.” Nik let out a tiny sigh, and Damen heard him lean in his chair, then felt Nik’s hand on his wrist. “You can always stay with me until you find…”

“No,” Damen said more firmly. “I’m doing this on my own.” He took a breath. “I thought I was independent, strong…”

“You are,” Nik began, but Damen held up his hand.

“I didn’t realize how much of my life had been bought by my father. I didn’t realize how much he didn’t trust me, how much he’d been willing to give to Kastor. I didn’t realize how much of my past had been a test to see if I could function in the role he wanted me to do in _spite_ of my blindness. Or how much of my life I was never actually alone, how often he had me watched.” Damen swallowed thickly. “I didn’t realize you were the only person in my life who treated me like I was a whole, capable person until all of it…” He breathed through the tightness in his chest. “When the baby died, when I found Jokaste in _his_ bed, that’s when I realized I had to do this on my own.”

“Alright,” Nik said quietly. “And I actually do get it. I was by your side through all of it—because I wanted to be. And I’m not saying you should just get over it. I would never say that. But I am saying that you’re wasting away here and that you can have art, you can have the gallery and everything you want to do with it—but you can have other things too. More than just…just me.”

“When I’m ready,” Damen said, pleading in his tone. “And I need you to let me decide when I’m there.”

Before Nik could say anything else, there was a noise from the other side of the wall, letting Damen know the neighbor was home. He sighed, and heard Nik’s chair push backward. “That’s my cue.”

Just then, the neighbor’s voice sounded through. “I’m late, I know.”

“I’m still on a schedule here," Damen called back. "I still need to work, so I'm not giving you extra time!"

“Wouldn’t dream of it, machin!” the neighbor called back.

“Enjoy your music, khriso mou,” Damen said. He got up then, walking with Nik to the door, grasping his arm. The music began—morose and drawn and as terrible as it had been before. “See you later?” Damen murmured.

Nik leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Same time next week. Enjoy your concert.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Damen said cheerfully, and closed the door as quiet as he could so as not to disturb the piano playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: machin- French for "thingy" or "whosit"
> 
> khriso mou- Greek for my dearest/my love- as close as i could find to "sweetheart"


	3. Chapter 3

Damen held a bit of clay between his fingers, absently working at it although he couldn’t concentrate with the neighbor’s playing behind him. It was as it always was—morose, well practiced but exhausting. Damen was tired just listening to it, and slowly—so slowly—he was being driven mad.

It was almost like listening to an endless metronome, tick, tick, tick, tick—except instead of the ticks, it was the same notes over and over played in a way that made him wonder if the man on the other side of the wall hated himself, and hated all music.

He felt the corner of his eye twitch, and he felt the clay beneath his fingers start to give way. He felt something bubbling in his gut, and without really thinking, he was suddenly on his feet. He’d crossed the room without meaning to, both hands splayed on the empty space on the wall between the beams, his forehead pressed against it.

“Stop,” he begged. “Stop! Khriso mou, please. This is all wrong, I can’t take it.”

The music stopped abruptly, and a voice filled with acid said, “Excuse me?”

Damen winced. “I just…I have to know. I have to know why you’re playing, why you insist on playing this over and over and over if you hate it so much.”

Another prolonged silence, and then the voice asked, “What the hell makes you think I hate it?”

“Because you’re playing it like you’re miserable,” Damen said. “Every single note is being dragged from your fingers like it’s the last thing you want to be doing. So why? Why do this to yourself?”

“I’m not…” His voice faltered, then he asked, “What the hell do you know about music, anyway?”

Damen couldn’t help his laugh. “I grew up with it, and I’ve been told I have an exceptional ear for it. It’s…one of the few things I’m good at.”

“I bet,” the neighbor snapped, then a few more notes played before Damen heard the lid close over the keys. “What do you suggest then, machin? If you’re so skilled?”

Damen breathed out, a small smile across his lips. “You were playing something before, days ago. Something new. I’ve never heard anything like it, and it was…it was raw and it was full of life. Why not that?”

“Because I…” He heard a huffing sigh. “It’s none of your business.”

“I know,” Damen admitted. “But I could help? I think I could help.”

“I think you should mind your own business,” the neighbor snapped, and the lid rose again with a heavy thunk, and the song began again.

Damen turned, sinking to the floor with his back to the wall, head bowed. He’d bear it—it really wasn’t his business, but his heart ached with how miserable this person was. You could tell a lot from a person by the way they played. Damen had relied his entire life on other means to understand people. Where his eyes couldn’t see expression, he listened to tone, to movement, to the tiny sounds most people never paid attention to. And with the musicians he’d known, he listened to the way they played, how much of their heart they put into every note, their feelings pouring from their fingertips.

This man—whoever he was—he was hurting, and he was alone, and he was miserable.

It took him a moment to realize the music had stopped, and when the voice spoke again, it was much closer. “I have an audition. It’s…important, one of the most important things I’m ever going to do. My instructor gave me this piece to play and I…” He sighed. “I was working on something else, something original to give them, but he insists they’ll never let me in. He’s right, of course.”

“He isn’t,” Damen said. “You’ll never get through the doors to anywhere with that noise. No one is going to want you to play if you can’t play for yourself, khriso mou. Even if you play that, you have to do it for you. Not him.”

“That’s easier said than done,” the neighbor said with a bitter laugh.

Damen grinned, and he put his head back, tapping his fingers on his thighs in thought. “I have an idea, if you’ll trust me.”

“I don’t even know you,” the neighbor said, but Damen heard the resignation in his tone.

Damen adjusted his sit, crossing his legs, resting his elbows on them to better listen. “Move your piano closer to our wall.”

“Our wall,” the neighbor said with vague humor, but from the movement, it sounded like he was doing it. After a long moment of huffing and puffing, “Alright. Now what, maestro?”

Damen laughed loudly. “How are you sitting? Describe it to me?”

“The…standard way. How does anyone sit at the piano?” the neighbor asked, sounding irritated. “My back is straight, shoulders back, head up…”

“What are you wearing?”

The neighbor laughed pointedly. “What is this? White boys texting?”

“Just…trust me,” Damen begged.

An annoyed sigh, then, “Trousers, a sweater, socks. I…my hair is up,” he said. “Tied back from my face.”

“Take it off. Put on some pajamas, let your hair down. Slouch,” Damen said. “Make yourself as comfortable as you can on a piano bench. Don’t think of everything you’ve been trained to do, think of what brings you small joys. Do you have fuzzy socks you love? A favorite sweater, maybe? Like those ugly Christmas ones people pretend to hate but you know they love?”

The neighbor let out a startled laugh. “I don’t own any of those.”

“But you have something, don’t you?”

“I…” He went quiet, then said, “I do.”

“Do it.” Damen’s smile widened when he heard the neighbor stand, move out of the room, and the silence that followed. Nearly five minutes went by, and then he returned. Damen heard him move the bench and sit, and his fingers tested out a few keys. “Let yourself feel the music. Don’t think about the notes, just…just play them. Give yourself to them. It should be a symbiotic relationship between you and the keys, you give them life, they give you life. You give them love, they give you love.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the neighbor muttered, but Damen could tell from his tone, something was changing. Maybe he was foolish, but something had to give, and for all that this man had been the bane of his existence since moving in, Damen felt an unquenchable thirst to help him.

The first notes poured out much the same as it had. And then something changed. They came faster, slurred together almost, pounding out with a sort of fiery anger and frustration. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was something.

Damen felt himself laughing, nodding along, hitting his fist along his thigh to the rhythm saying, “Yes. Yes, khriso mou, yes!”

Then the neighbor started laughing, and the music carried on, and the tone changed.

It was working.

*** 

Laurent hadn’t felt this exhausted playing in years. But he also hadn’t felt this elated, this thrilled, this connected to his playing in years, either. It felt like a hundred ton weight was lifted off his shoulders, and the moment the notes died down, he had to fight back the urge to cry.

Instead of that, he moved from the bench, pressed his back to the wall, and slid down until his legs were stretched in front of him. The light in the room was dim, soothing, making everything look like a watercolor painting in a way. He realized his eyes were wet, and he swiped them with the back of his hand.

After a long moment of silence, and swallowing his pride which burned against his throat, he said, “Thank you, machin.”

The neighbor was quiet for a moment, then he sighed. “You’re welcome, khriso mou. That was…better.”

Laurent laughed, shaking his head. “That’s the understatement of the year, you know. I didn’t think,” he dragged his hand down his face, “that I had it in me. Not anymore.”

“But you used to?”

Laurent scoffed. “When I was young, foolish—big dreams and big expectations. They didn’t last.”

The neighbor said nothing for a while. “And now?”

“And now I don’t know,” Laurent confessed. “I think if I walk into the audition and play like that, my un—my instructor,” he corrected, too afraid to give much of himself away, “will have me murdered on the spot.”

“Even if it gets you in?” the neighbor challenged.

“I think it would be unwise to underestimate the influence my instructor has over the audition panel,” Laurent said. Laurent wasn’t entirely sure about that, though. He was too afraid to assume otherwise, but he was foolish enough to hope. And he was cautious enough not to slip out of his uncle’s graces entirely—not just yet. Not until he had a way out.

“I don’t want you to give up on your piece,” the neighbor replied after a bit. “I’ve only heard a little, but it’s good. It’s better than this.”

Laurent shrugged, aware the neighbor couldn’t see him. “I wrote it a long time ago when things were…” He stopped, swallowed. “It was not the best time for me.”

“Did it help? Putting sounds to it?” the neighbor asked.

“I think so.” Laurent felt his cheeks heat up, and he realized then he hadn’t talked about this with anyone—not Auguste, not Jord, not his therapist. He licked his lips. “I stopped feeling like I was going to suffocate under the weight of it.” The memories, which still manifested in nightmares when things got bad. But it had been—something, easier, he supposed—when he’d written it all down.

“I don’t play,” the neighbor said. “I never really tried. I think I wanted to once, when I was little, but my father didn’t think it was worth getting my hopes up for if I couldn’t do it. I found other outlets, and it helps sometimes.” The neighbor’s tone was thick with emotion, like maybe he understood.

Laurent closed his eyes and tried to picture the man, but he couldn’t. He knew he was Akielon—knew what they were mostly like. Darker skin, rich black curls, deep brown eyes. Larger in build, generally, than most of the people in Arles. “What do you look like?” he finally asked.

The neighbor chuckled. “I don’t really…know how to explain that. Um. I’m tall, muscular, typical Akielon, or so Nikandros always tells me.”

“Good looking?” Laurent pressed.

He laughed again. “Why, khriso mou? Do you want to just come over and see?”

“No!” Laurent said in a rush, and then rolled his eyes at himself. “No I’m just…curious.”

“I’m not the best judge about whether or not people are good looking.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Laurent said, biting his lip.

“What about you, then? What do you look like?”

Laurent felt instant panic well in him, and he opened his mouth, the lie tripping from his tongue without really being aware of it. “I’m tall,” he said. “I’m tall and broad. Dark hair, brown eyes.”

“Sounds lovely,” the neighbor said, and Laurent couldn’t read his tone.

“Not to your tastes?” Laurent challenged.

The neighbor laughed again, the sound almost melodic in a way, strangely comforting. “I like them pale and blonde. Blue eyes, like the sea.”

Laurent felt himself flush, and though he knew the neighbor couldn’t see him through the wall, he found himself turning his face away. “Oh I…” He stopped himself from confessing the truth. “Tell me something else about you. Something unique. Something you love?”

The neighbor hummed. “I love cowboy boots.”

Laurent made a noise of surprise. It was possibly the last thing he expected the man to say. “Boots?”

He laughed. “Yes. Cowboy boots. Thick heels, heavy leather. I love the clicky sound they make when I walk on the pavement. I have at least four pairs—I don’t know why. Nikandros doesn’t waste a minute making fun of me.”

“Is Nikandros your…” Laurent struggled for the word. “Significant other?”

The neighbor laughed harder this time. “Oh my god. Oh. No he’s…he’s like my brother, I suppose. We’ve known each other most of our lives. He comes around once or twice a week, helps with my shopping, especially when work is too much. I’m sure you’ve heard him.”

It was true, Laurent had heard the visitor, but he hadn’t let himself think about it much. “Oh. Sorry. Are you…taken?”

He could hear the smile in the neighbor’s voice when he said, “Not at the moment, no. Not for a long time now.”

“I understand that,” Laurent said, not really willing to give too much away. But although he hadn’t said much, although he’d kept so much private, he also felt exposed. Safe, though, in a way he hadn’t ever felt. Comforted. Like he could tell this man anything and everything and he’d never be judged. He found himself smiling freer than he had in longer than he remembered, and he wrapped his arms around his middle, wishing this would never end. “I have to sleep soon,” he said eventually. “I have early lessons tomorrow.”

“Alright, khriso mou. Get some rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, and knowing that made the idea of sleep almost welcome. “Yes, you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is updating early because I have a huge test this week so I'm going to be busy with that, but after that things should go back to a normal posting schedule. Also if Laurent's chapters come across as awkard, that's totally my fault. I was born blind so I'm kind of just basing visual description off of things I've read, which is a stupid amount of crappy romances and a bunch of fanfic lol. My beta is happy with it, but I thought I'd just put a note here in case any of it sounds weird lol. Anyway thank you for all the comments and kudos, I'll reply to them asap!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got out of my test, so I'm posting it since my beta got it to me ready to go. All mistakes left over are all 100 percent on me. I hope you like this update. We're getting closer to them actually meeting!

Laurent woke up before his alarm, and carefully turned it off before the blaring sound could wake the neighbor. He was feeling…strange, in a way, confused by the night before, but lighter. Happy, he realized. Or at least as close to it as he’d been in a long, long time.

He was quiet as he stepped across the floorboards, trying to keep his footfalls as light as possible. He couldn’t hear a sound from the other side of the wall, which probably meant the neighbor was asleep. He was still reeling from it all. The angry way the neighbor had come at him about the song, and how he’d somehow, _somehow_ managed to know exactly what Laurent needed.

Of course, Laurent shuddered to think what his uncle would say if he’d seen it. How he’d react if he’d been there to witness Laurent with his hair down, shoulders hunched, bent over the keys and letting his body say with the rising and falling notes. It went against every second of his training, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but a sort of bone-deep relief that he’d let himself just…go. His fingers itched to sit down at the keys, to work on his own composition, to breathe life into it the way his neighbor had breathed life into him just hours before.

His skin tingled with anticipation.

He had an early lesson—the first with Aimeric, which was a decent paying job, and one Laurent couldn’t afford to miss.

He skipped his shower, but refreshed himself with a trickle of water from the faucet before tying his hair back and taking his shoes in hand. With his apartment door closed, Laurent sat at the top of the stairs and tied them, thinking suddenly of cowboy boots, of tall, broad Akielon men with olive skin and dark curls and a laugh which sent shivers up Laurent’s spine.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus, though. He curled his hand into a fist, until it stung, and then he got up and went out for the day.

*** 

Aimeric, luckily, had some of the basics down, which made Laurent’s job a little easier. He couldn’t sight-read, but that would come with time, and when Laurent left his lesson that afternoon with cash in his pocket, he was treated to another taste of freedom.

A steady paycheck was on the horizon—not just from Auguste’s contacts, or putting up flyers for students, but the promise of a teaching job at a prestigious conservatory which would allow him to make his own name, separate from the family who had come before him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he glanced at the screen to see Jord’s name. “Yes?”

“How did the lesson go? Auguste told me you were taking on some kid?”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “The pair of you are the worst gossips. And he’s not some kid, he’s eighteen, and he has some promise. At the very least it’ll pay for my groceries this week. Why?”

“Because I want a coffee and I thought you might be nearby.”

Laurent snorted. “Your inability to eat food in public without a dining partner still astounds me.”

“Well I wouldn’t even be bothering you if Auguste wasn’t busy. But he is.”

“Ah. Reminding me I’m second choice, as always.” Laurent gave a dramatic pause. “Strong incentive for me to join you and not let you suffer without caffeine.”

“Don’t make me beg,” Jord said, his voice just short of a whine.

Laurent drew the moment out, and then laughed. “Fine. I’m pretty close to Café de Printemps. Be there in fifteen or I’m leaving.”

He could hear the way Jord scrambled to hang up, and he laughed to himself as he slipped his phone back into his pocket and headed the opposite direction on the street.

Jord had been Auguste’s best friend all through college, and Laurent had grown used to him—the way he did with a lot of the people in Auguste’s life. He preferred him to most people, so having a drink with him wasn’t exactly a hardship. And honestly, Laurent was still reeling from the night before and having someone to talk to about it was appealing.

The café wasn’t far off, and Laurent slid himself into a seat near the edge of the sidewalk to wait. He had a decent view of the people passing by, and his eyes kept flickering unconsciously to the shoes of the pedestrians. 

Cowboy boots, he realized. He was looking for cowboy boots.

They weren’t exactly in fashion, and there was every chance the neighbor had been lying or joking. Laurent himself had given the neighbor a completely opposite description of himself, and it was possible the same had been done to him. The neighbor certainly sounded Akielon—the accent was impossible to miss, though possibly easy to fake—but it wasn’t like all Akielons were cut from the same cloth. Jord’s friend Isander was from Sicyon, but was fair-skinned with soft, honey-colored hair.

It meant only one thing, really. Cowboy boots really would be the only way Laurent would be able to spot the stranger.

He supposed it was a good thing they weren’t trendy. Though he wondered how strange he’d look walking up to a perfect stranger on the street and asking if he was the cranky neighbor who could hear him through their shared wall.

Nerves prickled through him, making his fingers feel numb.

He wished Jord would hurry up. He didn’t want to sit out here much longer. He ached for the confines of his apartment. Glancing at his watch, he realized right now the neighbor would be deep into his own work. Laurent had no idea what he did, and hadn’t bothered to ask the night before. Whatever it was, though, the sound was soft, rhythmic, like a whirring. Occasionally the neighbor would hum—not really able to keep much of a tune, but it was low and in its own way, sweet.

He was missing him, Laurent realized. He was missing that stranger.

The feeling was utterly new.

It was utterly terrifying.

It was utterly…

“I thought you might have left,” came a voice to Laurent’s right, startling him out of his thoughts.

Laurent jumped, then rose to his feet a little too fast, smoothing his hands down the front of his pants before clearing his throat. He could feel a slight blush in his cheeks, but he hoped Jord would assume it was the afternoon heat. “I nearly did,” he said, his haughty tone returned. “What took you so long?”

“I’m three minutes early!” Jord protested.

Laurent rolled his eyes, then motioned toward the café door. “Well I say fifteen minutes, and I expect you in ten. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

*** 

Damen woke, a languid feeling settled in his limbs, almost satisfying in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. He could feel the sun coming from his window, a sort of warmth splayed across his face. He smiled into it, rolling over, his hand feeling round for his clock. Pushing the button on the top, the very soft voice read out, “Nine-forty-three am.”

It was much later than he’d planned on sleeping. In truth, he’d been relying on the neighbors alarm to wake him every day, since he was a far earlier riser than Damen had ever been. But he’d missed it that morning, and had over-slept.

Rolling over, he pushed up, scrubbing a hand down his face, then brushing up into his curls in hopes his fingers could tame them a little. Pushing up to a stand, he twisted this way and that, reveling in the little cracks and pops of his spine.

He walked the sixteen steps to the kitchen, his fingers brushing the counter, reaching the button on his coffee maker. It started with a pleasing bubbling noise, and it was only moments before the fresh scent of the warm brew filled his apartment.

“Khriso mou?” he called out after some hesitation. The night before had been…different. Startling, but wonderful. He’d gone to sleep with a grin on his face, and the hope that maybe there was something in this after all. It had taken nearly all of his willpower not to leave the house, to burst into the building next door and find the neighbor’s place. But he didn’t want to scare him off.

He was unpleasant at the best of times, but Damen could sense there was something underneath that—something sweet, something that was afraid more than it was mean, and Damen liked to think he was good at bringing that out in people, even if it had been a long time.

He realized during his swirling thoughts, the neighbor hadn’t answered.

With a frown, he moved over to the wall, letting his hand touch it as though that touch could somehow confirm whether or not someone was home. “Khriso mou?” he tried again. “Did you sleep through your alarm?”

Again, nothing.

He tried to recall of the neighbor had said anything about an early appointment, but their talks hadn’t gone that far.

It was probably a morning lesson, Damen reasoned with himself. There was no need to feel nervous. Maybe he’d scared the neighbor off, maybe they’d gotten a little too friendly, but he wanted to believe it wasn’t like that at all.

He’d let it lie. He wouldn’t obsess about it. He’d use this extra time to get some work done since the art show was creeping up on him, and he still didn’t have his main piece finished. The smaller ones hadn’t needed much inspiration. He’d been able to draw on the many pains, and few joys in his life to create them.

But this. This was something else, this was presently still lumps of clay sitting on a wheel waiting to take some sort of form. He was at a loss, and starting to feel somewhat petrified that he wouldn’t be able to come through. And then what? His reputation could be tanked and he wouldn’t be given a chance at another gallery.

He let out a trembling breath, moved back to the kitchen for his coffee, then set out to work.

*** 

By some miracle, Damen actually did manage not to think of the neighbor, or much else for the next few hours. He didn’t make much progress on his piece, but he made some, and that tiny bit felt like a minor triumph. He was just washing the bits of clay from his hands when he heard his phone chime with Nikandros’ ringtone.

Swiping his hands off on his jeans, he reached for his phone and swiped the answer button. “Yeah?”

“Is that any way to greet the only person in your life right now who loves you?” Nik demanded, speaking in rapid Akielon which told Damen Nikandros was trying not to be understood.

Damen sighed, leaning against the counter. “What did you do this time?”

“I might have left my wallet at my place, and I might be at a restaurant right now on a date and looking like a damn fool. I’m at Le Quatre, and it’s like a five minute walk from your place. I will be forever in your debt if you can just hook me up with some cash…”

It wasn’t that Damen never left the house, or that he was afraid. That was far from the case. He didn’t prefer it, but he knew his neighborhood well, knew exactly where Nikandros was, and how to get there. Even if it meant using the app that made him think of Kastor the entire time, and his former job, and his former life.

He dragged a hand down his face, then reached over to touch the wall, his fingers skimming it until it reached the hook where his cane was hanging. “Alright, fine. But you owe me. Like buy me a small country levels of owe me. I was actually getting work done.”

“Anything you want, I swear to god,” Nik vowed.

“I’m holding you to that,” Damen said. “I’ll be there in five.” He hung up, then grabbed his earbuds, plugged them into his phone, and tapped the address into his app. He squared his shoulders, finding the courage to deal with the outside world, then walked to his door and headed out.

*** 

Nik was waiting outside Le Quatre for Damen to arrive, and Damen caught a whiff of his distinct cologne, coming to a stop just before Nik reached out to touch his arm.

“I owe you so much,” Nik said by way of greeting.

Damen snorted, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of folded cash. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Nik took the cash, but didn’t let Damen’s arm go. “Come have a drink with us, at least. You came all this way. And the food here is so good.”

Damen bristled, squeezing the rubber grip on his cane as he pulled it in close to his body. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to waste time fucking around in a bar when I have so much work to get done.”

“Are you really going to be able to work more after this?” Nik challenged, knowing well that when Damen’s progress was interrupted, it would be hours before he could get back to it.

Damen sighed. “Fine. But you’re buying me cheese sticks.” He folded his cane, tucking it under his arm before resting his fingers on Nik’s shoulder.

The space between tables was thin, Damen bumping his hip into chairs more times than he wanted to count. He could hear outraged mutters which carried on only until the people realized he was blind, and then they went suspiciously silent. Damen bristled a little at that. There were days he appreciated people giving him wide berth, and other days he wished they’d just start shit like they would have if he’d been a regular sighted guy.

But whatever. He was getting cheese sticks and maybe a beer out of all this, and getting to embarrass Nikandros on his date didn’t hurt.

“Chair’s right in front of you,” Nik said before stepping aside, and Damen reached out, pulling the chair back, and he took a seat.

There was a pointed silence—typical for when Nik’s dates met Damen for the first time, then an awkward throat clearing. “So um. Damen. I’ve heard so much about you.”

The man sounded young, his Veretian accented.

“I’m sure whatever you heard, it’s all lies,” Damen said easily, his mouth falling into a lazy grin.

“I only told him you were an insufferable asshole and I don’t know why I’ve put up with you for all these years,” Nik said.

Damen laughed into the tense silence. “Oh well, in that case, all true. I’m all of those things. It’s nice to meet you, by the way.” He extended his hand in what he hoped was the direction of the man, and after what felt like way too long, thin fingers squeezed his own.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

Damen realized he didn’t even know this guy’s name. Maybe the guy expected Nik to have talked about him before, which then made Damen wonder how long Nik had been seeing this guy. Not that any of it was important.

The server came by, and there was a pause before he said, “What can I get him?” to Nikandros.

Damen’s jaw clenched, and he heard Nik take a deep breath, presumably to rip the server a new one for not addressing Damen directly. “ _He_ will take an order of the cheese sticks, and whatever Belgian wheat ale you have on draft,” Damen said, his voice tense.

“Uh. Oh. Um. Yes, I’ll be…right back with that,” the server stammered.

Another tense silence, then Nik said, “Is it going on the list?”

“The list?” Nik’s date asked.

Damen snorted a laugh. “We have a list of establishments we won’t eat at because the staff act like abelist morons. I’m willing to give him a pass right now. We’ll see if he keeps acting like an ass when he brings the food.”

“That happens a lot?” the date asked.

“Let’s just say our list of places we will eat at is a lot shorter than the places we won’t,” Nik said. “Too bad though. He’s totally your type, Damen. Hot, short, blonde…”

“Oh my fucking god,” Damen groaned.

The date cleared his throat. “You uh. Like blondes…”

“You’re such an asshole,” Damen muttered, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I have a history of dating blondes, but it’s not on purpose. I can’t actually tell until I touch it and it’s not like a _thing_. It’s just a coincidence.”

“That’s just what he wants you to think, Kallias,” Nik put in.

Kallias. Damen filed that away for later. “Whatever. He’s always giving me shit for it. For all I know, he’s a fucking blonde and he’s just mad I’ve never hit on him.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Nik said, kicking him under the table.

The silence from Kallias was telling enough—he wasn’t really comfortable—but he wasn’t making the moment awkward, so Damen let it go. His beer arrived shortly after, and then the food. The server didn’t make the same mistake twice.

All in all, it wasn’t terrible.

*** 

“Okay, I’m going home,” Damen said as they stood outside Le Quatre. He was leaning gently on his cane, one earbud in his ear, the app queued to get him back home.

“Do you want company?” Nik asked. Damen couldn’t tell from his tone whether or not he was looking for an excuse to get out of the date, so Damen assumed he wasn’t.

“I’m good. I uh. My neighbor will be home so…”

“Oh god. Are you two still going at it?” Nik asked, then he said to Kallias, “Damen and his neighbor are feuding instead of acting like adults and just sorting things out.”

“Actually we talked,” Damen said, and he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Like, half the night, in fact. He’s…he’s not what I thought.”

Nik swore in Akielon under his breath. “Pósa kilá malákas íse?”

Damen smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m coming by later, and we’re talking about this,” Nik said, then dragged Damen in for a hug, kissing his cheek roughly. “I’m not joking.”

“I know you’re not. Have fun on the rest of your date.” Damen took a step back, then started the app, put his cane out in front of him, and started on his way home.

*** 

Laurent and Jord stood outside the café, Laurent fumbling with his phone as his eyes repeatedly flickered to passers-by. Still no cowboy boots, still no idea who his neighbor could be, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In the end, he’d decided not to say anything to Jord, but it was still eating away at him. In fact, it was so distracting, when he took a step forward, he was unaware of a person in his path until their bodies collided. Laurent turned, a murderous look on his face, words falling from his lips before he was really aware of the situation. “Why don’t you watch where you’re fucking going?”

Then he took inventory of the situation. Tall man, dark skin, dark curls, holding a cane.

He was blind.

Shit.

The man said nothing, just raised his brows, and Laurent—stubborn and always refusing to admit when he was wrong—said nothing.

Eventually Jord stammered an apology, “Sorry about that, neither of us were looking. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the man said, voice clipped. He turned back around and started on his way.

Laurent rolled his eyes toward Jord who had his arms crossed. “Really?”

“I’m not going to let you act like you were in the right for that one, Laurent,” Jord said. “Anyway, I have to be off. See you later this week?”

“If I have time,” Laurent said loftily. He kissed Jord’s cheek in farewell, then turned away from Jord. Down the street, he could still see the man with the long cane in front of him. He was attractive—there was no way for Laurent to ignore that. Large muscles, cut jaw, jeans so tight they looked painted on.

He continued far ahead of Laurent, his cane swish-tap, swish-tap from side to side. When he turned the corner, Laurent let out a breath, and decided to take the long way home.

*** 

Laurent was just rounding the corner toward his building when he came to a nearly crashing halt. Standing outside of the building next to his was a man—tall, light brown hair, fair skin, wearing a pair of cowboy boots. There was no missing them—black, leather, boots tucked into them looking distinctly out of place.

Laurent’s mouth went dry.

The man looked nothing like he’d pictured, but it suddenly didn’t matter at all because it was _him_. It had to be. He was standing in front of his neighbors building, and Laurent had been searching all day, and hadn’t seen a single cowboy boot in the street.

He moved without thinking, approaching the man so fast there was no hope he’d go unnoticed. The man looked up from his phone, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly, and Laurent reached out—bold and brave—and grabbed his wrist.

“You know me.”

“I…” The man’s voice was thick and hoarse, like he was battling a cold. “Do I?”

“I’m Laurent.”

“Torveld,” the man said, and gave him a slow look up and down.

“You live here,” Laurent stated.

Torveld’s eyes flickered to the door. “Have we met? Is there a problem I need to address or…”

“Do you want to come home with me?” Laurent asked. He’d never done this before, ever. He was all nerves, his skin alight with anticipation and fear. But he was grabbing the bull by the horns, so to speak. He wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. Though the man wasn’t precisely his type—not that Laurent had a clue as to what that was—he’d half fallen in love the night before and he couldn’t let this slip through his fingers.

Torveld blinked at him, cleared his throat, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

Their fingers linked together, and Laurent all-but dragged him through the doors of the building, and up his stairs. He froze for a moment, taking a breath. It all felt…not quite right, but he was tired of living his entire life based on fear and avoidance. Maybe it wasn’t meant to feel right immediately. Maybe it needed time.

He gave Torveld another once over, then reached for the handle on his door. It swung open, but instead of stepping inside, he leant his back against the doorframe.

“We’re doing this?” Torveld asked in a low voice, crowding into Laurent’s space.

Laurent nodded. “I…yes. Yes, we’re doing this.”

“Good, because I…”

“Khriso mou?” The voice sounded through the other side of the wall, and panic seized Laurent.

He grabbed Torveld by the front of his shirt and shoved him backward into the hallway. “I’m sorry,” he said, scrambling inside. “I can’t do this. Go away.” The door slammed in his face, and after a moment of knocking, Laurent could hear Torveld’s confused footsteps retreating.

Turning around, he pressed his back to the door, the only thing holding him up.

“Do you have company?” the neighbor’s voice called.

Laurent realized he was shaking, and with careful steps, he crossed the room, putting both hands on the wall for a moment to steady himself. He sank to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest, and took a breath. “I…had a bad day,” he admitted.

The neighbor huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Laurent bowed his head, pressing his forehead to his knees. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better,” the neighbor said. “You sound worse than I do. Do you…” He stopped with some hesitation in his tone. “Should I…come over? Do you need some company?”

Panic ripped through Laurent again, and the word, “No!” burst past his lips. He steadied himself. “No. I…I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” the neighbor said, very softly.

“I’m sorry, machin,” Laurent said. “What we had last night, what we have right now, I like it. I like it so much. It feels safe, you know? I mean maybe it’s weird that you’re talking to a person, developing a sort of relationship with a person you can’t even _see_ but…”

The neighbor’s soft chuckle interrupted him. “I don’t think it’s weird. At all. Trust me, I have a lot of experience with that.”

Laurent couldn’t help his smile at the strange reassurance. “Can we just have this? Just for now? Until we’re ready? It just feels so much less complicated.”

There was a pause, then the neighbor said, “Yes, khriso mou. I understand, and yes. I love what we have, too.” There was a thud, like the neighbor settling himself against the wall. Another lighter thud, like maybe his head was resting near to where Laurent had his. Laurent turned slightly, pressed his palm to the wall and waited. After a bit, the neighbor said, “Tell me about your day. Tell me how I can make it better.”

“This is all I need. Just to hear your voice. Can you do that.”

There was a smile in the neighbor’s voice as he said, “Yes, khriso, mou. I can do that. Let me tell you about my friend’s terrible date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: Greek- Pósa kilá malákas íse?  
> Why are you behaving like this?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta got this back to me a little early, so I thought I'd go ahead and post it now. There's a little bit of smut content in this chapter, not too much, but a hint of what will come when they finally meet. Thank you so much for all the comments, hopefully I've replied to them all.

In a moment of surreal disbelief, Laurent froze in the hallway near the study door. A familiar voice, one he hadn’t been expecting, drifted through the crack between the wall and the door, and it sent chills up his spine.

He moved without really thinking about it, pushing the door open and strolling in. It was time for Aimeric’s lessons, so he had every right to be there. But like it always was, his uncle’s looming presence made Laurent feel like he was a child intruding on an adults-only party. He shuddered under the heavy weight of his uncle’s watery, narrowed eyes.

“You know it’s unprofessional to be tardy to these appointments, Laurent. I have taught you better. I hate to think your attitude as an instructor would reflect poorly on those who were responsible for your education.”

“I am just on time,” Laurent said stiffly.

His uncle dropped a hand on Aimeric’s shoulder, then retracted it and went to the couch to grab his bag. “I need to check your progress. Come by the studio after you’re finished here and I can give you an update on the audition.”

Laurent wanted to tell him no. He opened his mouth with a rejection on the tip of his tongue, but in the face of his uncle’s power, he found himself simply nodding and saying, “Yes, uncle.”

The Regent swept out of the room, and Laurent let out a small breath before turning to the teen who was still sitting at the piano a little stiffly, fingers poised near the keys.

“He thinks I have promise,” Aimeric said. “He thinks you’re letting me be sloppy.”

Laurent licked his lips, then sat down on the end of the bench near his student. “He would say that.”

“He said a few more months of practicing and he’d be happy to take me on as a private student. Since you won’t have time for me if you make it to the conservatory position.”

Laurent flinched without meaning to, and a well of protective fear rose in him. “I won’t stop teaching you. You don’t have to go to him.”

“Isn’t he better than you?” Aimeric asked.

Laurent blinked several times, then said, “He’s been playing a lot longer than I have. It’s ultimately your choice, but I won’t abandon you just because I got another job.” With that, he gestured toward the keys, and got Aimeric working on the piece he’d been struggling with all that week.

*** 

Laurent was calmer when he left the building, but he was still battling nerves, and the desire to call Auguste and let his brother talk him out of going. But Laurent couldn’t be rid of his uncle just yet. Not showing up, being disrespectful and rude, would only cause his uncle to make a few phone calls and ensure Laurent wasn’t ever heard by those who mattered. Laurent needed to pave the way to prove himself, and in doing so, he couldn’t burn this bridge.

Not yet.

He would, when the time was right. He had the matches and fuel all ready to go, but he had to bide his time.

At the very least, Laurent was good at that.

Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text message to his uncle, saying that the lesson ran long and he’d be by shortly. He was buying himself some time to grab a coffee, to compose himself, before he showed up to face his uncle.

The line for coffee wasn’t too long, and there were at least three baristas working, so Laurent got to the front pretty quickly. He eyed the menu, but went with his standard café au lait, moving to the side to wait for his name to be called.

On the counter where all the finished drinks were delivered, Laurent could see a handful of flyers advertising local shows and music venues. He recognized a few of them, but one in particular caught his eye. The ad was printed on a sort of soft, pastel green, and on the front it had a strange, Akielon design Laurent had seen, but wasn’t sure what it meant.

Below the design was a text that read, **Hands-on art show at Mellos Gallery. Come and meet the renowned sculpture artist Damianos, and see the world of art his way.**

Beneath that was a series of dots, which Laurent recognized as braille. It made him instantly think of the man he’d almost knocked over in the street. Akielon, tall, attractive, an expression on his face like he was going to take no shit from rude people like Laurent. He wouldn’t have been surprised if that artist and the blind stranger had been the same guy.

When a voice cleared their throat, Laurent looked up and realized he’d moved up to the counter. His hand was resting on the flyer, and he glanced at the name tag of the barista. Pallas. His cheeks flushed.

“Sorry, I’m in your way.” The apology slipped out without Laurent really thinking about it, since he wasn’t prone to doing that normally.

The guy behind the counter shrugged and said in deeply accented Veretian, “It’s fine. You can take one of those if you like. I know the artist pretty well and it’s going to be a pretty sweet show.”

Laurent felt himself taking the flyer, folding it up for his pocket, though he had no intentions of going to an art show. He couldn’t afford the time away from his piano, and what little time he did have, he found himself wanting to sit by the wall in his apartment and talk to his neighbor.

His coffee was done before his uncle’s text came back, letting him know it was fine, but to hurry. Unconsciously, Laurent put more speed in his steps, and he was just finished with his drink as he stepped up to the building his uncle had rented for his time in Arles. It made his stomach twist, knowing he’d managed to escape his uncle in Acquitart, only to have him follow Laurent, and get a place so close.

He breathed through his frustration, and rang the bell.

One of the house servants let him in, and Laurent was hustled into the main parlor where his uncle’s piano waited. It was new, shining, probably freshly tuned and more than Laurent would be able to afford for a long time. He itched to sit behind it, to touch it, even if it meant dealing with his uncle.

He didn’t have to wait long. His uncle entered the room, cleared his throat, and gestured to the bench.

Laurent sat, stretching his fingers, flexing his back. His posture settled immediately, and he felt instant stiffness. He ached for his little apartment, for the neighbor’s voice telling him to slouch, to let his hair down, to give in to what he wanted instead of everything that had been beaten into him.

He couldn’t give into that now.

“You’re sloppy,” his uncle sneered when the last note rang through the room. “You won’t be getting any special favors from anyone simply because you are my nephew.” Though his voice was ice-cold, the palm he laid against the back of Laurent’s neck was searing hot, and Laurent had to force himself not to flinch away. “You might want to consider cutting back the lessons you’re teaching. Unless, of course, this audition doesn’t matter to you anymore.”

“Of course it matters, uncle,” Laurent said, aware of the tightness in his voice.

“Then you need to act like it. I didn’t waste years of my life to watch you fall into a pathetic waste of a musician. And that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Laurent felt his stomach clench, and his throat start to burn with emotion. “I…”

“I don’t think I want to hear it. I will come by next week, before the audition, and I had better see improvement or you can kiss your future goodbye. I assumed, Laurent, you wanted to make your mother and father proud. Not embarrassed they ever had you.”

Laurent said nothing, just bore the insult with his head bowed until his uncle turned, and left the room. Even as he gathered himself and went out to the street, Laurent kept it all tightly inside.

*** 

Damen’s fingers tightened on Nik’s shoulder as they moved into the center of the main room. His other hand reached out for the platform Nik had told him was to his right, and they brushed up to feel the placement of his smaller sculpture.

“I don’t think they’re going to change much when the larger one is delivered,” Nik said, then amended, “ _If_ it’s delivered.”

Damen squeezed his shoulder harder. “Asshole. Why don’t you have any faith in me?”

“Look man, my faith only carries me so far, and you’ve been working on that thing for thirteen months. You really think it’ll be ready by next week?”

“Stranger things have happened, alright? So get off my nuts.”

“I won’t be the one losing prestige and money if you don’t follow through,” Nik reminded him.

Damen released his grip on his friend and put both hands on the elevated platform. After making a few minor adjustments to the piece, and reading the braille plaque which was attached to the side with both braille and print, he was satisfied. 

He began counting off steps in his head, like he’d been doing all afternoon in an attempt to learn the room. It would be trickier when the showing came. He wouldn’t be using his cane, and Nik had already signed up to be his guide, but it was Damen’s night, and he would be showcasing all of his work, which meant navigating around more people than he cared to, and talking about himself which he also didn’t love.

He was preparing himself for the most ridiculous questions, for the inevitable person who yelled thinking his hearing was compromised, for people who grabbed his arm and pulled him places, for them waving their hands in his face. The whole thing gave him a stomach ache, and not for the first time made him miss his old job.

But being usurped by Kastor had been both the worst and best thing that ever happened to him. He supposed he might have even considered going back if it hadn’t been for Jokaste. If it hadn’t been for him walking into their apartment and hearing them, and having her attempt to hide Kastor right in front of Damen, simply because he couldn’t _see_.

But Damen had been blind his entire life, he was more than skilled and recognizing when another person was in the room, and he’d grown up with Kastor. There was no missing him. He let the pair of them flounder for almost twenty minutes before admitting he knew what was going on.

Then Jokaste had packed up her things, and she was gone.

Then Damen had packed up his own, and moved into the dingy little apartment, and set to move on with his life.

He wasn’t entirely sure how well it was working out for him, but he thought about his neighbor suddenly, and his heart went light. He understood why the neighbor wanted to keep things anonymous. Damen understood fear of intimacy better than any person, but there was a quelling desire in his gut to bring the neighbor with him—to at least know his name, to know the feel of his warm skin beneath Damen’s palms, something, _anything_ to prove to himself this all wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.

For a long time after Jokaste, Damen had wallowed. Had sunk into a depression which went so deep, for a while he thought maybe he’d imagined the entire thing. But she came back, only once, to let Damen know that she and Kastor were getting married, that she was expecting and well…

It was impossible to deny then.

That’s when Damen had begun his work, and now he was starting to second guess himself on whether or not it would ever be finished. Maybe he was shooting himself in the foot, destroying himself before he could really get started.

He took a breath and bowed his head toward the floor. “Nik?”

“Yeah, here,” Nik said, not far off from where Damen was standing.

“I think I need to head home. You don’t mind handling the rest, do you?”

“You look kind of off, man. You want me to walk you home?” Nik offered, his hand gently touching Damen’s elbow.

Damen shook his head. “Nah. But maybe if you want to come by with something from the Farmer’s Market? I could go for something baked and cheesy like…I don’t know. Moussaka?”

Nik huffed a laugh. “Yeah, alright. But only if I can stay and eat it with you.”

Damen froze, then squared his shoulders as he reached into his back pocket for his folded cane. He said nothing as he clicked it into place, then squeezed the grip and gathered his courage. “Um. Yeah, but uh. The neighbor is going to be eating with us.”

“The neighbor? The guy you hated, and now you love, and you don’t even know his name?” Nik pressed.

Damen nodded, knowing he hadn’t fully explained it all to Nikandros, and thinking maybe it would be better, when Nikandros got there. Maybe he’d understand why this way, at least for now, was better. “Cool?”

After a long hesitation, “Cool.”

Damen made his way to the door before starting up his app, and heading back to his place.

*** 

The apartment next door sounded silent, and Damen felt a rush of disappointment that he was still alone, until he heard a faint ping coming from beyond the wall. He hung his cane in its usual spot, then approached the wall and put his hand there. “Khriso mou?”

There was a very long silence before a soft voice said, “Yeah. You home?”

Damen nodded, laughing slightly as he pushed his forehead to the wall. “Yeah. Yes. I’m home. I had…my day was long, and it’s barely three. Are you alright?”

Another long silence. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it. Can you tell me about your day?”

Damen opened his mouth, then stopped and said, “I have an idea first. It’s…maybe it’s crazy, I don’t know. What do you think of putting our beds here? I know why we’re not seeing each other right now but I want to feel close to you, khriso mou. Do you think…”

“Yes,” the neighbor interrupted, a little too hurried, a little too fierce. It made Damen smile. “It’ll take me a minute.”

Damen couldn’t help a tiny chuckle. “Yeah, me too.”

Moving things in his apartment was tricky. He’d put everything the way he needed it, and moving things around would only take time away from his work so he could re-learn the steps and placement of things. But for the neighbor, it felt worth it. Knowing he could go to bed and roll over and know he was sharing the same space as the man just on the other side of the wall…

He took his time, pushing his small bed into the open space. He could hear the neighbor doing the same, sounding like he was having more trouble, so instead of offering to come and help, Damen quickly mapped out his new steps to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to his closet.

When he was satisfied, he sat down, listening to the bedsprings creak, and the quiet squeaking shuffle of the neighbor’s furniture shifting. Soon enough there was a dull thud, and Damen eased himself down onto his back, turning toward the wall.

He reached out a hand and gave the wall a pat. “I’m right here.”

After a moment, the pat was echoed. “Me too.”

Damen squeezed his eyes shut, tensed every muscle in his body, then relaxed. “I’m sorry your day was bad.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” the neighbor said. “Do you want to talk about yours?”

Damen licked his lips. He was torn, because he never shared the way things had gone with Jokaste, not even to Nikandros. But leaving it inside him was starting to fester, and he was afraid he’d never get better if he didn’t deal with it.

“I think I’d like to, but I have to warn you, it’s a lot. It’s kind of…heavy.”

“Trust me, I think I can take it,” the neighbor said, and something in his tone told Damen that was true.

Damen shifted closer, adjusting his pillow, leaving his hand touching the wall like somehow he was touching the other man. He licked his lips. “I was married. I used to work for my father at a tech developing company, right out of college. I was working there to train, because my father figured I was going to take over as CEO when he retired. She showed up there as someone else’s date. The guy got wasted and threw up on her shoes, and me being me, I tried to come to the rescue. It was kind of a disaster…”

Which was an understatement. Damen was good at a lot of things, had worked his whole life to be—but he was still blind, and a tipsy blind man trying to help clean vomit off a woman’s shoes would never go well in any universe. It was by luck, and maybe because Jokaste had her sights set high, she had found the whole thing charming.

“…but we started dating right after that.” Damen took a pause, a long breath. “I won’t go into the whole thing. But ah…two years ago, she got pregnant. It wasn’t planned—it was bad timing. My father was sick, my brother was staging a corporate coup trying to get my job and I was so fixated on the whole being a father thing, I didn’t try to stop it.”

“You’re a father?” the neighbor asked.

Damen let out a hollow, pained laugh. “No. I’m not. She was about three weeks from her due date. She wasn’t feeling well, I was rubbing her stomach and I realized there hadn’t been any movement in a while. We went to the hospital and they said ah…they um…” Damen’s voice went thick.

“I’m sorry,” the neighbor whispered.

Damen cleared his throat. “They had to give her drugs. She delivered, and we got to say goodbye. Things didn’t go well after that. A few months later I came home and found her with my brother. In that week I lost my wife and my company to him.” Damen let out another tense laugh. “So I just…moved. I packed what I could, and I moved here, and I started over.”

“A new tech company?” the neighbor asked.

Damen’s laugh this time was lighter. “No. No I followed one of my other passions. It was working out…for a while. But I’m kind of stuck, and I had to check up on some stuff today and I realized I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make my deadline, and I don’t know if it’s my fault for letting myself wallow, or if it’s supposed to take this long to get over it.”

“I don’t think there’s really a timeline on grief,” the neighbor said after a moment, his voice very close to the wall now. Damen unconsciously shifted toward the voice, so close he could feel the wall almost touching his nose. “You lost your child, then your wife, then your job. You don’t have to bounce back from that. You’re only human, machin.”

Damen chuckled softly. “Nikandros would probably argue that I am taking too long.”

“Well he sounds like a fucking idiot,” the neighbor bit. Then after a moment, “If it helps, I know what it’s like to feel an oppressive, suffocating emotion caused by family events outside of your control. It isn’t death or affairs in my case, but I think the feeling is…similar. And I’m sorry. I wish I knew how to make it go away, but I don’t.”

Damen licked his lips. “Do you cook?”

There was a pause, then the neighbor said with some uncertainty, “I’ve cooked before.”

“Would you like to cook dinner with me? I’m making moussaka. It’s an Akielon dish…”

“I know what it is,” the neighbor said, a little irritated.

Damen laughed sweetly. “If you’ve never made it before, I could walk you through it.”

There was more silence, then the neighbor said, “Alright. I…I don’t have ingredients or anything but…”

“I promise it’s not hard. I can give you a list. Only ah…well. Nikandros is staying for the meal. I’d actually like him to meet you…as much as he can with our situation. But he’s important to me, and you’re becoming important to me, and…it would be nice.”

“Okay,” the neighbor said with a quiet whisper. “Shall I bring someone too?”

Damen felt a smile creep over his features. “If you want. We can call it a double date.”

“Does this Nikandros have any preferences? Really I only have one friend who isn’t my brother, and my brother’s married with one kid and another on the way, so…”

“He’s not picky at all. I told you about his last date. I think he’s happy with anyone who has a pulse.”

“Charming,” the neighbor drawled, but there was a smile in his tone. “So tell me, machin, what do I need to buy.”

*** 

Damen couldn’t help his laughter as he began to chop the eggplant. He could hear the neighbor’s cursing, the way he was dropping vegetables, the hiss when he burnt himself by accident. He wasn’t even entirely sure the neighbor had an oven to bake the moussaka in, and there was a moment when he muttered, “It can’t possibly be this much cheese…oh well, whatever,” that had him nearly doubled over.

“I hope your friend has a good pizza place in his contacts,” Damen said as he eased back onto the bed. He’d shifted it over in order to put his dining table against the wall, but the mattress felt good under him for the short time he had to rest before Nikandros came back.

Nik hadn’t been entirely amused when he’d arrive with the ingredients, only to be sent away for two hours, but he was an agreeable best friend who obeyed Damen, even if he’d probably make him pay for it later. But Damen was alone now, the food in the oven, the wine uncorked and breathing on the table.

He could hear the way the neighbor flopped onto his own bed, the frame which had to be metal, squeaking under his weight. “Ha, ha. Very funny. I might not be good at cooking, but I’m good at many things.”

“Is that so?” Damen didn’t mean for his voice to drop, for intent to color his tone, but it happened. He flushed, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it back. He didn’t want to take it back. The more he knew the neighbor—even without having met him face-to-face, even without knowing his name—he was falling for him.

There was a pregnant pause, then the neighbor said, “Yes. Would you like me to show you?”

Damen couldn’t hold back a soft groan, his hand reaching for his braille watch so the mechanical voice of his alarm clock didn’t spoil the mood. Nikandros would be by in forty-five minutes, and assuming they couldn’t finish…whatever it was they were going to do…in that amount of time seemed a little absurd. “Please,” Damen managed.

The neighbor breathed out, cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was clear he had his back to the wall. Damen mimicked him, and his hand went to the zipper on his jeans.

“Don’t,” the neighbor commanded, his tone sharp. “Not yet. Just lightly rub yourself with the heel of your palm. Are you…do you have a penis?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “You?”

“Yes,” Laurent said. Then, “Are you doing it?”

Damen wasn’t but he quickly complied, rubbing the heel of his hand up and down his hardening dick. He felt his entire body shudder with want. Normally touching himself was perfunctory, a way to take the edge off because the idea of sex with another person after Jokaste seemed so hollow. But this, with the neighbor’s voice guiding him, low and wanting, it was like the neighbor’s hand was on his.

They were doing this together.

His breath hitched.

“Good,” the neighbor murmured.

“Are you touching yourself?” Damen asked.

“No. And I’m not going to. Please don’t ask me why.”

“I won’t,” Damen said. He rubbed a little harder, a little faster, his head thunking backward.

“You like that. I think you’d like to unzip your pants now, wouldn’t you, put your bare palm on yourself?”

Damen’s mouth went dry, throat tight as he did just that. He scrambled to get his jeans to his knees, not bothering to get more naked. He fell back and curled his hand around himself, and gave one stroke.

“Don’t,” the neighbor said. “Don’t finish too fast. Take your time. Press your thumb into the slit.”

Damen did, and his breath felt like it was ripped from his chest. He moaned, and couldn’t help a few fast, tight strokes. “God. I want you.”

“Are you thinking about me? If I was there right now?”

“Yes,” Damen said through clenched teeth.

“Stroke a little faster—not too fast. Don’t come yet.” The neighbor let out a shuddering breath, then said, “I think I’d like it if I were there. I think I’d like it if you touched me. How would you touch me?”

“With all the grace and courtesy you deserve,” Damen said, the words falling from his lips without really thinking about it. “Soft, slow. I think you’d like it slow.”

“Yes,” the neighbor breathed.

Damen stroked himself in time with his breath. “I’d hold your hair back, kiss your neck, slowly drag my hand down your chest, up your inner thigh. I’d ease you down on the bed, take you in my mouth, suck you…”

“Don’t promise me something like that if you wish to get it in return. I won’t do that,” the neighbor said, his voice sharp enough it drew Damen out of his fantasy.

Damen’s hand stilled, though he didn’t let go. “I would never ask you to give me what you didn’t want to give me, khriso mou.”

There was a pause, just the neighbor’s labored breathing. Then he said, “Stroke yourself, make yourself come thinking of my cock in your mouth.”

Damen could all but imagine it, the heavy weight of it on his tongue, bringing him to climax, feeling the hot seed spilling, swallowing it down. It was so much, and it wasn’t enough because the neighbor wasn’t here. But it was exactly what he needed to make himself orgasm. He felt the hot wetness pulse from the end of his dick, spilling onto his knuckles, onto his stomach. Pulling his shirt off, he cleaned himself until he couldn’t feel sticky anywhere, then dropped it on the end of the bed. His head flopped to the pillow, and he let out a shaking breath.

“That was…”

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” the neighbor said.

Damen reached for the wall, pressing his hand to it, desperate to reach through the divide and draw the neighbor close to him. “Do you think you’ll ever want to meet, khriso mou?”

After a while, he said, “I think so. Not yet. I don’t want to ruin this yet.”

“I don’t think you’ll ruin it at all.”

The neighbor let out a derisive snort, but only said, “You’d better get cleaned up before Nikandros arrives. From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be amused at his best friend laying there partially naked with his limp dick out, and his chest covered in come.”

Damen doubled over with laughter as he struggled to his feet. “I like you, khriso mou. Even if this is all we ever have, I’ll forever be grateful for it.”

“Me too, machin,” the neighbor said after some silence, and he sounded like he meant it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tiny bit late, I know. Good news, I passed my test with a B and I think it was all those well wishes I got, so thank you guys! Bad news, I have two papers due so it will probably be a full week before the next chapter is up, but I'll do my best. It's almost over, just two left, and an epilogue.
> 
> A warning for this chapter: The Regent makes reference to Laurent's abuse. Nothing more descriptive than the book, but just be careful if that's a trigger for you.

Damen could feel the stare Nikandros was giving him when he brought him over to the table. Pushed against the wall, Damen had laid out two settings, two glasses of wine, and the moussaka in the center.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Nik demanded.

From the other side of the wall, the neighbor said, “Does he know I don’t speak Akielon?”

Damen felt Nik let out a heavy breath, and then—still in Akielon—said, “Seriously, what is this?”

Damen had briefed Nikandros on the important parts—he still didn’t know the neighbor’s name, who he was, what he did for a living apart from the music. In turn, the neighbor was unaware of Damen’s job, his name, the fact that he was blind. The bare minimum had been their agreement, and though Damen felt like a line had been crossed after the coaxed sex, he was still respecting the neighbor’s choice to remain anonymous.

“We’re having dinner,” Damen said pleasantly. “Khriso mou, has your friend arrived?”

“He’s here,” the neighbor said. “Jord, this is the neighbor, and his brother Nikandros.”

Beside him, Damen felt Nikandros stiffen with shock, but he said nothing. It was clearly something they would be talking about when they had privacy.

“Just sit,” Damen ordered, and he reached out for his chair, plopping down and moving over slightly so Nik would have room. He reached for the moussaka dish, feeling the side gently to ensure it was cool enough to touch, then he dug the serving spoon in and served his plate. “How did yours turn out?”

There was a snort, and an unfamiliar voice that said, “I’m not sure it’s supposed to look like this? Also are you aware he doesn’t have an oven? He baked it in a toaster oven.”

Damen groaned, laughing as he dropped his head into his hand. “Khriso mou,” he said, exasperated and fond.

“I can’t cook, sue me,” the neighbor said, and there was a smile in his voice which only made Damen’s grin grow larger. “I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”

“I’m way too terrified to find out,” Jord replied. “Are you sure I can’t come over and taste yours instead?”

“Shut up and eat it.”

Damen felt Nik eventually sit, reaching over him to fill his own plate, and then there was silence as they dug into their meals—some with more vigor than others. After some time, Jord said, “This is weird. I mean, I guess there’s an appeal to it, but it’s…I mean…how can you like a person when you can’t even _see_ them.”

“There’s more to people than their looks,” Nik snapped, his voice intense, defensive. He’d been that way since they were boys, and Damen put a hand on his arm, but he wasn’t finished. “We live in a superficial society, fixated on what the media tells you is attractive, and it’s why so many relationships are doomed.”

“Spoken like a true ugly person,” Jord said.

Nikandros made to stand, but Damen stopped him. “Do you really think he’s ugly?”

There was a pause. “Well…I…”

Damen went on. “I mean, it’s all subjective, right? I’m sure you’ve been called attractive in your life, but I’m willing to bet there are others who didn’t find you good looking at all. It’s why we all have a type, and not all of us base it on visual perspective.”

“That’s a lie,” Jord said simply.

“So blind people,” the neighbor said, and Damen felt his breath hitch.

Jord cleared his throat. “Okay. Okay fine, but I mean, it’s not like they don’t have some means of understanding physical attraction.”

“Sure,” Damen said easily, trying not to give too much away. “Touch, cadence of voice, accents. But other people find those things attractive too, you know. It’s why there’s been such a huge boom in internet relationships.”

“And people ending up dead in abandoned basements,” Jord replied.

“Why are you so angry?” Nikandros asked, finding his voice. “You sound like someone just crushed your balls under her heel.”

“His,” Jord said stiffly, “and not…exactly. Not that it matters.”

“Well it makes sense, so I can’t fault you for it. But I bet by the end of this dinner I can have a pretty good guess about the type of person you are, and maybe even a decent guess at what you look like. At least better than you could guess me.” Nik had a smile in his voice, the sort of smile he always got when he was presented with a challenge.

After a pause, Jord said, “Deal. But what do I get if I win.”

“The knowledge that you beat me. No one ever beats me,” Nik said with a chuckle.

“I wish he was lying,” Damen said, “but he really isn’t.”

*** 

It had been a long time—years, Laurent thought—since he’d enjoyed something so thoroughly. He and the neighbor spoke very little, but Nikandros and Jord’s banter was enough to keep him entertained. He watched as Jord’s face grew darker and darker every time Nikandros gave him shit, but it wasn’t anger or irritation. It was the same look Jord had for the short period of time when he was dating Lazar. A challenge—a person who was up to his standards and could match him.

Laurent knew what that desire was like—felt it echoed back at him from the neighbor.

He was doing his best through the shitty dinner not to think about what they’d done just before Jord and Nikandros arrived. Laurent had never been so bold—had never let himself loose like that with another person. He’d been touched only against his will, and although he had been sure for a while he would never want to be touched again, he was rapidly changing his mind.

He was grateful in the throes of his passion, Damen didn’t ask again if he could come over, because right then Laurent may have said yes. And he wasn’t entirely sure he’d regret it, either. But now he was thankful they had more time.

He wasn’t a fool, he knew it wasn’t going to be this way forever, but he wanted to go slow, to fall in love until the desire was consuming him. And only then would he be ready to see the neighbor face to face, to hear his own name off the other man’s lips, to see him, touch him, know him.

“Are you ready?” Jord asked as he put the last of the dishes away. Most of the would-be moussaka ended up in the garbage, but they had garlic bread to soak up some of the wine they’d been drinking, and Laurent was feeling slightly heady, and slightly happy.

There was silence, then Nikandros said, “I was born ready, babe. What have you got for me?”

Jord licked his lips. “Average height,” he began, and Laurent thought quietly to himself, _wrong_. “Slim build, but maybe a little bit of a pudge in your stomach. Light brown hair, thin, stringy, not as pale as most Veretians, but close. A nice smile, but maybe teeth that aren’t entirely straight.”

“Hmm,” Nikandros mused. “And everything else? The things you can’t see?”

“Insecure, an introvert but has to work as an extrovert for your job. Doesn’t date a lot, but not for lack of trying. You’d make a good partner though, if someone gave you a chance.”

There was a slight huff from the other side. “Is that all?”

Jord glanced at Laurent who rolled his eyes, and then looked back at the wall. “I think so, yes.”

“Alright.”

Jord blinked. “How right was I? I think La—I think the neighbors should be the judge, yeah? So uh, neighbor I can’t see, how right was I?”

After a pause, the laughing voice of the neighbor said, “Doesn’t Nikandros need to go first? And khriso mou, you agree to these terms?”

“I agree,” Laurent said simply, folding his hands on the table.

Jord grinned. “Alright, let me have it.”

There was a very long pause, and when Nikandros spoke, his voice was low, soft, sweet. “I think you’re tall, muscular, light brown hair, tanned skin—typical of the Veretians from the south. I think you have a sweet face—you might be a little older than you look, and it probably shows in a few coarse, gray hair. I think you care a lot about your body, I think you’ve been burned by love, but ultimately, you’re worth loving. I think you open up too quickly, and you know it, but you do it anyway because you’re reckless. Reckless in more ways than one—with your love, with your loyalty, with your passions. People have probably told you it’s a bad trait but I wouldn’t believe them.”

Jord let out a huff of a breath, the look on his face utterly stunned. He turned his head slowly toward Laurent, his expression almost begging for Laurent to say something—do something. Because it had been too real. Spot on.

“Well?” the neighbor asked.

Laurent chuckled. “It makes me wonder if you have a way to see over here, machin, because that was exactly right. Maybe you know us after all?”

The neighbor chuckled quietly. “I’m not really the best judge, if we’re being honest. I can’t tell you whether or not Nikandros is a looker…”

“Not your type?” Laurent teased.

The neighbor’s voice dropped, low and inviting. “Not entirely, no. But I will say Jord is a little off the mark with Nikandros.”

“I’m willing to wager he’s way off,” Laurent said easily. The two on the other side of the wall just laughed and laughed.

*** 

Damen went to bed with a smile on his face. He’d walked Nik to the door, laughing at his assessment of the entire night. “Come on, you can tell me that you were offended. I can’t personally vouch for how good looking you are but…” he said in Akielon so the neighbor wouldn’t be able to understand.

“Fuck off,” Nik said, punching Damen in the shoulder.

“Just admit I was right, and it was a better time than you thought it would be.”

“I…” Nik huffed a sigh. “It wasn’t as big of a disaster as I assumed. I still think you should be careful, this whole thing is…” He trailed off, then said, “I understand you have to put more trust into people than most, whether or not there’s a wall between you. But I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“I know.” Damen dragged him in for a hug. “I trust him though, and that has to be enough for you.”

“That will never be enough for me. I love you too much.” Nik squeezed him, then muttered something about letting Damen get on with his through the wall sexing and he hurried off.

By the time Damen was back inside, the neighbor had sent Jord off, and the two of them were alone.

They talked quietly after that, lying in their beds, Damen pressing his hand to the wall wishing he could reach through and stroke the neighbor’s face, kiss his mouth, hold him tight. This was enough for now, but he hoped it wasn’t forever.

And he couldn’t help but say that aloud. “Do you think we’ll ever bring the wall down, khriso mou?”

After a long pause, “Yes. I don’t think I want the wall up forever, machin.”

Damen grinned. “Neither do I.”

*** 

The following morning they spoke very little. Damen worked tirelessly on his sculpture as the neighbor worked on his composition which was sounding more and more like himself than it ever had. Damen could imagine the feel of the neighbor’s shoulders under his hands, the way they’d slump down, rock with the notes, the way his head would tip back and maybe then Damen could pause and kiss him before he picked up where he left off.

It was a fantasy of them in the future, or maybe in another universe where there hadn’t been a wall—there hadn’t been distaste—between them. But what they had now was something precious. It was fueling Damen to work more, work harder, to put his all into his sculpture. 

It was nearly finished, nearly ready to be fired and sealed, and he sent Nik a text with the time to come pick it up.

**I can’t believe you actually did it.**

The phone read out the text in mechanical Akielon, and Damen flinched, forgetting about his earbuds. When the notes on the other side of the wall stopped, he felt momentary regret, but then he felt maybe it was an opportunity. Maybe it was time to tell the neighbor because he wanted him to know everything.

Instead of speaking, there was silence. Then the neighbor cleared his throat. “Machin?”

“I’m here,” Damen said, carefully making his way to the wall. He sat on his bed and rested his hands on his thighs. “Everything okay?” _If he asks,_ he said to himself, I’m going to tell him the truth.

“My instructor is over to hear me play one last time before the audition tomorrow,” the neighbor said. “I need to…” There was a tenseness in his voice which carried as he trailed off. “You need to know some things about our relationship. About the way he ah…the way he’s…the way he is with me.”

Damen felt his brow dip. “What do you mean?”

“He’s harsh. It’s the only way he’s ever been. We have a complicated history, and he’s not kind, but he does make me a better player, so I need you to promise me if you hear him being cruel, you won’t say anything. He can’t know about our relationship, okay? If he finds out it’ll be…”

The neighbor trailed off and let the silence speak for him.

Damen let out a breath. Promising to do nothing while someone was cruel to a man he was falling for was almost impossible to make. But he owed the neighbor his loyalty, and he didn’t want to do anything to hurt him. “Alright,” he said.

It wasn’t entirely a vow, but it was something.

The neighbor seemed to accept it. “Just…quiet, and then we can talk after that, okay? Maybe we can…dinner. Together. Real together.”

Damen felt his heart hammer in his chest, and he stood up abruptly. “Yes. I…I have something to tell you too, and I…before dinner, I want to.”

“Alright. Alright,” the neighbor said, but before they could continue, Damen heard the knock on the other side.

He sat, reaching for his socks to dull his footsteps, and he held his breath, and he waited.

*** 

Laurent smoothed his hair back into the tie before walking to the door and letting his uncle inside. He did his best not to take notice of the way his uncle’s lip curled in disdain as his small, blue eyes took in the place.

Laurent had never lived in such run-down apartments before. Nothing in his life had ever been second-hand and used. Now he had a small bed in his little studio, with no oven, and crappy art on the walls, and a couch with huge tears on the arms.

But it was his, and he loved it, almost as much as he’d ever loved anything.

He took a breath and waited for the Regent to address him.

“This is it.”

Laurent blinked. “The bathroom,” he said, nodding to the one door on the right.

The Regent sneered. “Well, at least you’ve treated your piano with care, which I have to admit I was starting to doubt. I’m…not going to comment on what you’re wearing, though if you hope to attract the eye of anyone, I would re-think everything you’ve done today.”

Laurent pinked, and he prayed that the neighbor wasn’t listening in too hard. “Would you like anything to drink before I get started?”

“I don’t think I’d like anything you have to offer in this hovel,” his uncle said.

Laurent blanched, but he walked to the piano and sat down. He stared at his notes, the ones he’d been painstakingly working on for months, and he set them aside for his audition piece. He let his eyes drift closed and prayed that the neighbor wasn’t around for this, that he’d managed to sneak out, or had put on headphones—anything that would mean Laurent wouldn’t have to explain himself after.

He didn’t think he’d get so lucky, of course.

His fingers flexed, then he pressed into the keys. He hadn’t been playing like this in a while—hadn’t been playing the way he did for his uncle. He’d been playing for himself, and trying to push himself back into that box the Regent had carefully crafted for him felt wrong. It was a struggle to keep his shoulders up and back, to keep his poise, the tempo he knew his uncle wanted to hear. He was too fast, then too slow. He was too focused on getting it _right_ that it was coming out all _wrong_.

He stopped when his uncle’s hand dropped onto his shoulder and squeezed. “I don’t know what that was, but it had better be a fluke. That was pathetic. Almost as pathetic as you used to look when you were kneeling for me.”

Laurent felt his throat close up, and he stood abruptly, blindly reaching for the edge of the piano. He breathed, then said, “Excuse me a moment, uncle.” He rushed for the bathroom, and it was only by a miracle the door didn’t slam.

The moment there was a barrier between him and the other man, Laurent’s knees went weak. It was one thing to know, to feel the memories buried in tiny boxes in the shadows of his brain. It was quite another to have the man who had created those terrors drag them out to be on full display. His stomach heaved and he tried not to be sick. Gripping the toilet, he held himself over the bowl until he was absolutely certain he wasn’t going to upheave everything he’d consumed in the last twelve hours.

The sink was cold as he gripped it, and he splashed water on his face before steeling himself to return to the piano. He’d get through it. He’d play the way the Regent wanted him to play. Tomorrow he would give it his all, and then he’d be free.

Stepping back out, Laurent froze when he saw his uncle standing by the wall, his face dripping with thick, red liquid. Unable to stop himself, he strode forward and realized the painting which concealed the neighbor’s little ghost trick had been ripped away, and there was nothing but a tiny, pinprick hole there.

“What,” he started.

His uncle turned toward him, face livid. “You’ll end up destitute and pathetic if you continue to live in this place. I have no faith in you, nephew. And you’ve no idea how much it pains me to say that about you. You had…such potential.”

Then he swept past Laurent and was gone.

Rage took him, surprising, and Laurent didn’t know where it was being directed, but his mouth was moving before he could stop it. “I told you to stay out of it!”

“Khriso mou,” the neighbor breathed, and it was obvious by his voice he was pressed against the wall.

Laurent shook his head in spite of knowing the neighbor couldn’t see him. “I told you to stay quiet, to leave it! I can’t…you’ve just ruined…ruined _everything_!” Panic hit him like a freight train. He could have handled it, could have dealt with it because it was almost over and now…

“The things he was saying!” The neighbor’s voice was growing louder, and there was a thump, like a fist hitting the wall. “He implied…he said that…”

“I know,” Laurent sneered. “Because he has. He has had me on his knees, and I was almost free of him until you had to open your mouth and now the audition is likely ruined! I can’t…we can’t…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “This is over.”

Unable to hear the neighbor pleading, Laurent quickly turned on his heel, and he fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like one more chapter to go. Any lingering mistakes are all mine, and huge thank you to my beta for taking time out of her incredibly busy schedule to help me out!

Damen felt his hands trembling, and leaned into Nikandro’s touch as his friend squeezed his shoulder. “I should have stopped myself, but I…” _I love him,_ he wanted to say, because he was sure he did. But it wasn’t the time for that. “You wouldn’t have been able to stand it either, Nik. The things he said, the things he implied. Laurent couldn’t have been more than a boy when he…” His voice cracked, and he felt Nik’s hand on him squeeze harder.

“I’ll make some calls,” Nik vowed.

Damen blew out a puff of air, then nodded. “I need to…I fucked it up, and I need to make it better. Do you know how to find out where his auditions are being held? I have to try. I can’t let him fail this because of my big mouth.”

Nik sighed, but Damen heard him rustling around, shifting to reach into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Damen breathed out a long sigh, trusting that his friend could get things done.

*** 

Laurent was beside himself. He hadn’t slept, and every time he closed his eyes, he could see the look of rage on the Regent’s face. He could see the look of awareness because no one was supposed to hear what he was saying—no one was supposed to know. Laurent hadn’t warned him someone was listening in, and now this was it.

He knew he was going to be sabotaged.

Laurent wasn’t sure how he was going to pull a miracle from this one, and he was tempted to just walk away. It was only the threat of being under his uncle’s thumb any longer that had him making the long journey to the concert hall, and taking his place in the line with the others vying for a place at the conservatory.

His music was in his hands, palms sweating against the thin paper, and he knew just beyond the curtains, he’d see the face of the conservatory board, and the face of his uncle who had probably already poisoned them against him. It felt like he was scrambling for more failure.

What had he done.

He’d have to play this right, to show he was penitent, to play exactly as the Regent wished, and only then could he begin to hope things would turn around.

His stomach twisted and he felt sick when his name was finally called.

The lights on the stage were burning bright, blinding him against the audience—small that it was, Laurent would have preferred to see the faces of the people who would be judging him. But he pushed that aside and took his seat, setting the music down, playing an old piece he knew by heart—and knew he could do better, if he tried.

But this wasn’t about better, this was about humbling himself, because he needed this.

His fingers felt stiff, and he heard the signal for him to begin. Just before he touched the keys, he heard a voice shout, “Bravo, khriso mou!” It was not the neighbor though. The cadence was all wrong. But he recognized the voice anyway.

Nikandros.

He felt a spark up his spine, but he realized it wasn’t a bad one. Warmth spread from it, and his breath came out shaking, but stronger than before. He touched the keys, and he began.

The music warbled out of him, wrong, unlike him, practiced but ugly and undeserving of this position. He could hear it in the shifting in their chairs, of the quiet whispers of disappointment because he had not lived up to his name or reputation.

It hit him like a freight train.

This is what the Regent wanted. His uncle. His abuser. He’d wanted him to fall, so he’d have to crawl, to beg.

His fingers slipped and clanged wrong on the keys, the sound offensive to his ears.

He heard a voice, “Alright, I think that’s quite enough if you want to…”

“Khriso mou.” 

The voice was coming from the other side of the wall, to his left, and Laurent froze. “Machin?” he dared.

There was a faint laugh. “You can do it,” the neighbor’s voice urged. “Do it your way, show them, play for them. Don’t let them take this from you. You know you can do it, I know you can do it. So prove it, khriso mou. Prove it.”

Laurent nearly fled, but the neighbor’s voice rang true, and firm, and Laurent felt a laugh bubbling up as he reached for his hair tie, as his blonde locks fell over his shoulders, as he hunched his back and his fingers hit the keys, startling everyone.

There was silence, ringing, deafening.

And then he began to play. His own music, his own work, his own way. It ripped through him, pushed through his fingers as they flew across the keys, as his body rocked, as it curled, as it bent. His eyes were closed and he was playing the notes he’d created, out of fear, out of loneliness, then out of being found, out of falling for someone he’d never met, but wanted so badly he could taste it.

This was it. This was his masterpiece, his magnum opus, and if it wasn’t good enough for them, then he was not good enough for this life.

The last notes trickled, and he could hear a scuffling, the neighbor’s voice protesting against someone, but then there was silence. 

And then there was applause.

The lights dimmed and though his vision was compromised, he could see his uncle whispering furiously to someone who was smiling, who was clapping. They were all applauding. The Regent was leaving in a fury, and in the back Laurent could see Jord, and Auguste, and a tall, broad man who had to be Nikandros.

He turned to rush toward them, to beg them to find the neighbor, but he was accosted by the others, by the panel, and by the looks on their faces, he knew.

He’d gotten in.

*** 

“You’re an idiot,” Nikandros groused as Damen took his arm. They walked out of the police station, Damen grinning like an idiot as they made their way toward Nikandros’ car.

“But it worked. Didn’t it? It worked?”

“He was arrested at the scene. There’s a search warrant right now, and they’re talking to several of his under-age students,” Nik said as they came to a stop. Nik pushed Damen’s cane into his hands and sighed. “His name is Laurent.”

“His name…” Damen echoed, but he knew. He’d heard it as they called him onto the stage.

“He was given the job, and he was looking for you after. I told Jord where to find you this evening.”

“The gallery,” Damen said, his voice quiet with his shock. “Do you think he’ll…”

“He’d be a fool not to, after all that.”

Damen wasn’t so sure, wasn’t so sure that Laurent would thank him for having the Regent arrested. But he couldn’t stand by and do nothing while this man terrorized Laurent, terrorized children. He deserved so much worse than an arrest, but this was all Damen had.

He couldn’t think of it now, couldn’t focus on it. He had a showing to get to, and he had only an hour to clean up before it was time. “Can I use your place?” he asked Nik quietly.

Nik laughed, then elbowed Damen hard in the ribs. “You don’t have to ask. You’re an asshole, but I hope this works out. The pair of you deserve each other.”

Damen couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over his face. “I…I hope so.”

*** 

Laurent clutched the address in his palm, his hands sweating as badly as they had been before the audition. His head was buzzing with the thrill of it, knowing he’d done it—knowing his uncle was behind bars. Auguste had been beside himself, furious with Laurent for not saying anything before now.

“You should have told me,” he said, his voice low and tense. “I could have…I could have done something.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurent whispered. “I just didn’t want this to hurt you.”

Auguste’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, and he dragged Laurent in for a fierce hug, his lips pressed to his temple in an angry kiss. “Never again. You understand me? Never again.”

Laurent had gotten the information from Jord after Nikandros went to save Damen. Damen. Laurent finally had a name, and when he was alone, he let it roll off his tongue several times, loving the way it felt.

Now he was there, in front of an art gallery which looked vaguely familiar. The line to get in had dwindled to nothing, and beyond the glass doors Laurent could see a crowd, could see sculptures, could see servers walking around with trays of champagne.

He didn’t see Damen, but he had a feeling that even not knowing what he looked like, he’d recognize him.

And he was ready. He was so ready.

He needed this.

Pushing through the doors, Laurent walked through the crowd and took a glass of the sparkling wine, letting the bubbles tickle at his nose more than he really drank it. He closed his eyes and he listened, strained, desperate for the familiar voice.

He’d done all of this for Laurent—had saved his audition, had saved him from the Regent, had gone to jail for him—even if it was brief, and there were no charges, or so Nik had assured him when he confessed Damen had been carted off for trespassing. But now he was here, now he was…

“…around the curve there. Yes, good. Just let your hand feel it, brush over it, notice the subtle difference in texture. It’s solace, that piece.”

It was him.

Laurent’s eyes flew open and he spun, gaze locking on a man just ten feet away from him. He was tall, like Nik, brown skin, wild curls, dressed in slacks and a button up shirt that barely fit. He was so broad, and so beautiful, Laurent briefly lost his breath.

He was everything and nothing like he’d imagined.

He was standing in front of his sculpture with his eyes closed, a smile on his face as he guided the woman’s hand across the clay. She was laughing, leaning into him, and Laurent watched Damen carefully pull away, polite, but firm.

His eyes opened, and Laurent came to realize another thing about him.

He was blind. Gaze unfixed, wandering, his brown eyes slightly hooded with heavy eyelids. He moved with purpose, with hands guiding him around the tables, touching the braille plaques. It hit Laurent right then—he’d seen him before. On the street, with the cane.

His entire body shook with the knowledge of it, and it was everything he could do not to rush into his arms right then.

Instead he waited for the crowd to move on, for Damen to turn his back, bent over the table with his hands splayed across it, taking a heavy breath.

Laurent took several steps forward, then said very carefully, “Machin.”

Damen’s entire body went stiff, and his head turned, eyes closed again. His jaw worked, then he said, “Laurent.”

Laurent swore in that moment his name had never sounded more beautiful. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something, but the words died in his throat as Damen took a step closer, then another, until they were nearly touching.

Laurent looked down, and saw Damen’s fingers trembling. “Your hands are shaking,” he said, feeling foolish at the first thing that tumbled from his lips.

Damen merely smiled, his own words coming out barely a whisper. “Are they?”

He couldn’t stop himself, even if he’d wanted to. Laurent reached between them and clasped Damen’s hands between his own. His didn’t come close to covering Damen’s, but the trembling eased, even as Damen made a slight, helpless noise when Laurent drew him closer.

“I’m having trouble believing you’re actually here,” Damen confessed. He extracted one of his hands, and drew it up Laurent’s arm, so it came to rest in the crook of his neck. His fingers flexed, then released, but didn’t let go. “It’s really you.”

“It’s really me,” Laurent said. He looked up at Damen’s face, unable to fathom this was truly him. He got lost in the cut of his jaw, the cupid’s bow of his lips, the soft dimples as he smiled. He gazed at Damen’s eyes, dark and moving, though the rest of him was so, so still. “You’re blind,” he said.

Damen startled, then licked his lips and said, his voice tinged with embarrassment, “I didn’t tell you.”

“No,” Laurent said, then huffed a laugh. “Some things make sense now. The conversation when we had our dinner date.”

Damen’s smile was shy, but sweet. “Ah. Yes.”

“But others…” Laurent trailed off, and Damen made a noise to urge him on. “You said you prefer blondes.”

Damen laughed then, his hand pushing up into Laurent’s hair, dragging the strands between his fingers. He leaned his head down then, breathing in the scent of Laurent, making a soft groan in his throat. “I don’t mind that you’re not blonde.”

Laurent couldn’t help his laughter, even as he let his body fall more fully into Damen’s grasp. Their hands were still clasped tightly between their bodies, Damen’s free hand still roaming through Laurent’s hair. “I’m blonde. I…lied. I was afraid.”

“Oh,” Damen breathed, then shook his head and groaned. “Nik will never let me live this down.” He moved his hand back to Laurent’s neck and said, “It’s…an inside joke, I guess. That I prefer blondes. Jokaste was…” His voice trembled, and Laurent knew right then exactly who Jokaste was. He clung tighter as Damen cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Laurent felt his own smile stretching along his mouth, and he let his forehead fall against Damen’s chest. “I wish we could leave. I want…”

“Yes,” Damen breathed. “Give me…give me five minutes. Nikandros can handle the rest. I won’t wait another moment to be with you.”

Laurent’s entire body shuddered with pleasure, and Damen’s hand moved to his cheek, tilting his head up, moving slow so Laurent could stop him if he wanted. But he didn’t want. He wouldn’t have turned this moment away, even if his life depended on it. His face tilted toward Damen’s, his own hand reaching up, curling around Damen’s wrist.

Then their lips met in the softest, sweetest kiss.

Laurent knew then, this was it. He was Damen’s, and no threat to his future would ever change that.


	8. Chapter 8

Laurent was nearly shaking out of his skin when the door closed behind them. He knew where he was. One building over, on his exact floor, in the room he’d been listening to for so long now. Damen’s apartment. Damen. The stranger who had attempted to frighten him away, had attempted to annoy him until he fled, and somehow had not only wormed his way into Laurent’s heart, but had saved his job simply by believing he was capable as himself.

Laurent was in love. Too afraid to say it, and feeling foolish because it hadn’t been long enough, and yet, here he was.

Damen’s hand was on him still, curled into the crook of his elbow as it had been from the moment they had broken the kiss and fled the gallery. Laurent felt waves of guilt, knowing Damen had abandoned his own showing—people who had come there specifically to experience his art—all for Laurent.

Laurent wanted this, but struggled to feel worthy of it.

He stole a glance up at Damen who looked just as nervous, his eyes wider than before, twitching back and forth sightlessly as they had been all night. It was, in a way, a shock to learn he’d been blind, even if so much of it made sense. But the way he’d laughed, the way he’d pushed his fingers into Laurent’s hair and told him none of it mattered, he just wanted him…it all crashed down on Laurent that it was real.

Laurent felt himself digging his claws in, refusing to let go.

“This is it,” Damen said, and there was a hint of apprehension in his voice, like he wasn’t sure how Laurent was going to react.

Laurent had to remind himself Damen couldn’t see him, couldn’t make assumptions from the wide eyes and half-smile Laurent had on his face. “It’s nothing like I pictured,” he blurted.

Damen stopped, then laughed—a gentle, quiet chuckle that went straight to Laurent’s heart. “Yeah? What did you imagine?”

“I don’t…” Laurent hesitated. “I don’t know. I…I was so caught up with you being…you. I didn’t really think. But I still feel shocked by it.” After another hesitation, “Show me where it started.”

Damen chuckled again, then leaned toward the wall and propped his cane up against the side of the door. He came around Laurent then, hands at his waist, and walked him forward. “Eighteen steps,” he murmured, right in Laurent’s ear. Gripping him by the wrist, Damen lifted Laurent’s arm and at exactly eighteen steps, they were at the wall. Damen guided Laurent’s had, as though he were the blind one, gently grazing his fingers to a small hole just bigger than a peek-hole in a door. “This is where it began,” he said quietly.

Laurent let his fingers brush over the opening, then he nodded, the movement right up against the side of Damen’s head. “And then?”

“Ten steps,” Damen murmured, and with his hands now on Laurent’s hips, he guided him to the bed which was pushed against the wall.

The mattress beneath them was firm, sturdy as they fell onto the blankets. They were facing the wall then, and Damen lifted Laurent’s hand to press against it once more. “Here,” he said softly, “here is where I would lay for hours, listen to you play, listen to your triumphs and your struggles.”

“Here’s where you touched yourself,” Laurent said, and he shifted his hips back, grinning when he felt Damen suck in a sharp breath. “Where I guided your hand with just my voice, and you came with that word on your lips.”

“Laurent,” Damen groaned, then pushed his face into the crook of Laurent’s neck and breathed him in. “Khriso mou,” he muttered.

“Machin,” Laurent said back, then turned completely to face Damen.

Damen wasted no time cupping Laurent’s face, brushing his thumbs along his cheeks, at the corners of his mouth. He dipped his head in low, nosing along Laurent’s jaw until he found his mouth—open and waiting—and claimed it. His tongue slid over Laurent’s, a soft brush, then firmer, wetter, needier.

Laurent gasped as Damen nipped his bottom lip once, then twice before pulling away.

“Beautiful,” Damen said, his voice a little breathless. “You feel so beautiful. I want you.”

“You’ve got me. I’ve been yours from the moment I set foot next door.”

Laurent was in over his head, but Damen didn’t handle him rough, nor did he handle him like he was made of glass. He seemed finely attuned to every minute shift in Laurent, to his every groan, every gasp, every time he tensed.

They wasted no time shedding their clothes, pressing body against body, Damen’s hands wandering around every inch, drinking Laurent in. He took them both against his palm then, letting their foreskins provide the slick movement as both of them rocked in time, reaching for climax.

It didn’t take long.

This time, when Damen came, it was the name, “Laurent,” on his lips.

Laurent let his head rest against Damen’s large chest, feeling more than hearing the thud thud thud of his heart as Damen’s fingers drew lines up and down the center of Laurent’s spine. Words seemed too much for the moment, so they lay quiet, basking in each other.

When they began to cool, Damen reached for his shirt and cleaned them up, but neither of them went far. The daylight was fading quick, and the apartment was sinking into dusky shadows.

“What now?” Damen asked softly, his hand brushing up through Laurent’s hair.

Laurent shifted, so he could look into Damen’s face. He appeared relaxed, mouth set in a half-smile, eyes closed. Laurent shrugged against his hand. “What do you mean?”

“You got the job,” Damen said. “At the conservatory. So where do you go now?”

Laurent huffed a quiet laugh, and when he fell back down against Damen, his head rested against his shoulder. “I go to work, then I come home and talk to you.”

“Maybe…it doesn’t have to be through the wall this time,” Damen suggested.

Laurent laughed again. “Maybe not, Damen. Maybe not.”

*** 

The walk back to the gallery was quiet. Far later than they intended to leave the apartment, Damen wasn’t complaining about the lack of people on the streets now. His cane moved in a gentle sweep in front of him, almost lazy as his hand rested palm-to-palm with Laurent’s.

Damen was sex-sated and even more than that, sated in knowing he had a future with Laurent, at least as much as they were both willing to work toward. But it had been worth it, the long weeks, and the struggles, and the patience as they got to know each other through quiet conversation. It had all led to this moment, and this moment felt like…everything.

“Nik said he left most of the sales slips in the front desk drawer,” Damen said as he reached into his pocket for the key. Laurent had pointed out the gallery was only a few paces away, and their steps had slowed. “I just need to grab them, and then we can get back.”

“Or,” Laurent said, and they both stopped walking. “Or…you can show me.”

“Show you?” Damen asked.

Laurent’s hand spasmed against his own, an almost reflex it felt like. “Show me the…the art? What you made. We rushed out of there and you had been working so hard on it for so long. I was hoping to…to see it.”

“Oh,” Damen said, and he felt his cheeks grow hot with a sort of pride-pleasure he hadn’t expected. “Of course,” he said, then he had to reach for Laurent, to touch his cheek again, to kiss him. It lasted several, long, sweet moments.

They reached the gallery, and Damen moved toward the front desk, freezing when he heard a clatter, then Laurent swearing.

“Is there a light switch here?”

Damen flushed again, laughing. “I’m sorry, I always forget. Here let me…” He reached for the wall, his hand searching until he found the little switch, flipping it up. He could hear the faint electrical hum, and then Laurent’s huff. “Better?”

“Yes,” Laurent replied, closer than Damen expected. “Which one of these sculptures is yours?”

“All of them,” Damen said, then his brow furrowed. “I think. I was told it was a sole showing, and Nik said most of them sold, though they wouldn’t have been taken yet.”

Laurent made a considering noise, then touched Damen’s hand and asked, “Which was the one you were struggling with?”

“The one you inspired?” Damen teased, dragging Laurent closer, nipping at the side of his jaw.

“That one,” Laurent breathed, his voice just a little shaky.

Damen did his best to remember the placement, but it was hard with Laurent so close, so consuming. His hand reached out, feeling round until it came into contact with the larger table. The braille plaque read, _The Wall_ , and he grabbed Laurent’s hand, urging him to touch the bumps.

Laurent did, then he read it aloud, humming after. “I don’t…I don’t see it.”

Damen grinned at him, coming up behind him like he’d done in the apartment, and he kissed his neck before saying, “It’s not meant to be seen, sweetheart. It’s meant to be felt. The way I created it. Close your eyes.” After a moment, he gently touched Laurent’s eyelids, finding them squeezed shit, his lashes fanned against his cheek. Damen wanted to kiss them, but instead he grabbed both of Laurent’s wrists and held his hands up. “Don’t look. It doesn’t work if you look,” he murmured.

He guided Laurent’s hands to the sculpture, then let him go, holding his hips as he felt Laurent’s back shift and move as he explored. It went on a little while until Laurent’s entire body went stiff, and a small, “Oh,” escaped him, like a huffing breath punched out of him. “Oh I…it’s us.”

Damen bowed his head into the back of Laurent’s neck, breathing him in. “It’s us,” he confirmed.

“It’s our wall,” Laurent said.

“Yes.”

Laurent turned, his hands on Damen’s cheeks now, holding him like he was something worthy, something precious. His palms were warm, soft, drawing him in as their lips met, pushing, pulling gentle kisses that threatened to break him right there. “It’s beautiful,” he said against Damen’s mouth.

Damen’s hands reached for him, gathered him as close as he could, fingers digging into his ribs, then moving back to splay wide against the small of his back. “You are beautiful,” he countered.

Laurent’s face heated up under his kisses, and after a moment he pulled back. “Don’t let me go.”

Damen’s smile was wide, stretching, yearning. “I won’t,” he vowed. It was a promise he had no intention of ever breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! I have another few ideas planned for Captive Prince, and I've also been working on a Teen Wolf fanfic that I'll probably start posting soon since the BF and I recently got back into the show. I appreiated everyone's comments and kudos, and I'll reply to them asap.


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